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CORfHlGHT DEPOSIT. 












































































T I 









{ 


THIRTEEN YEARS OF SCOUT 

AD VENTURE 








“We had hiked and slid over scenery that was mostly 

perpendicular—” (Chapter XII) 






1 THIRTEEN YEARS OF 
SCOUT ADVENTURE 

By 

) 

STUART P. WALSH 

»/ 

Author of “Hikes Beyond the Highways,” “Trails 
of the Twenty-third Troop,” Patrols and 
Patrol Leadership,” etc. 


J 


ILLUSTRATED 


J 


PRESS OF 

Igwmaji & Jfanloni (a 
SEATTLE 





Copyright, 1923 

BY 

Stuart P. Walsh 



DEC 10 1923 s 

K 


©C1A765674 ^ 

'Vo 





To the memory of my father, 
whose love for the arts of 
Scoutcraft first led me to 
seek in the woods inspiration 
and pleasure, this hook is 
gratefully dedicated. 








CONTENTS 


CHAPTER ONE 


Page 


How It All Started. 13 

The hay-mow headquarters in Lockport—Early styles in uniforms 
and badges—The first camp on Treasureless Island—First aid and 
fish hooks—The musk-rat spring. 

CHAPTER TWO 

The First Invasion Of Michigan. 23 

The search for a wilderness—Scoutmaster Merritt Lamb—An 
eighteen-mile row—The sand cure for mosquitoes—A marine roller 
coaster. 


CHAPTER THREE 

The Twenty-Third Chicago Troop. 33 

A scribe who knew his stuff—A heavyweight tenderfoot—L. L. 
McDonald and James E. West—Roast turkey without gravy. 

CHAPTER FOUR 

Explorations On The “East Coast”. 43 

The second invasion of Michigan—A sand-paved boulevard—The 
strategy of foraging. 


CHAPTER FIVE 

Pioneer Days At Camp Keesus.. 53 

A heritage from Indians and lumberjacks—Nine homesick tender- 
feet—The midnight ride of Mr. Sachs—Scouts who liked hard 
work—Mr. Neeves, Mr. Drake, and other famous characters. 

CHAPTER SIX 


Tpirills In The Hammond Woods. G9 

When the bean can burst—The episode of the five wire fences— 

Hot dogs and the burglar pup—The human lean-to—A hike de luxe. 

CHAPTER SEVEN 

The Cruises Of The Ill-Fated SS. “May”. 79 

A motor boat that was worth sixty dollars—The voyage on the 
Chicago drainage canal—Deep-sea ambitions—The phantom ships— 

The story of Camp Calamity—A day of heavy losses. 










CONTENTS 


Page 

CHAPTER EIGHT 

The Polae Expedition Of 1917. 95 

High waves and low spirits—Fast in the ice pack—The panic of 
Muskegon lake—Fooling the famished sea-gulls—A two-mile hike 
that lasted five days. 


CHAPTER NINE 

Desperate Deeds In The Sand Dunes Op Indiana. 107 

Five tough characters—The kidnapping of Lopez—A wet trip to 
Michigan City—Sleeping in warm snow—The escape from the 
ice berg. 

CHAPTER TEN 

The Good Turn At Fort Sheridan. 123 

A war-time service corps without service—Justifying the scout 
motto—High praise from Gen. Nicholson—A patrol leader who 
could lead. 


CHAPTER ELEVEN 

A Tenderfoot Scoutmaster In The Farthest West. 132 

Emigrating to the Charmed Land—Strange tools of scoutcraft— 
Learning a lot in a hurry—Camping on a new kind of canal—Wild 
pigs and painted caves in California. 

a 

CHAPTER TWELVE 

A “Glazed” Trail In The Unmapped Olympics. 147 

The remotest American wilderness—Directions with a double mean¬ 
ing—No place to lie down—Cat tracks and devils’ club—Snow balls 
in August—The mountain that wasn’t climbed. 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN 

In The Heart Op The Cascade Range. 163 

A railroad that runs on request—A summer camp no auto will ever reach 
—The right ridge but the wrong mountain—Log cabin evenings—The 
lake that got lost—Snow-shoe adventures in Mt. Rainier National Park. 









LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


Facing 

Title Page 

“We had hiked and slid over scenery that was mostly perpendicular.”* 

.Frontispiece 

The Scoutmaster and a patrol of Lockport Troop 2 in 1911. 34 

Famous members of Chicago 23, Henry Thomson and Adrian Kraus. 34 

“Each night we camped on the beach—”. 46 

“Each morning we moved on to new scenes—”. 46 

The rescue of Thomson from the iceberg. 46 

“The tents were pitched in a tree-enclosed meadow overlooking Lake 

Michigan” . 54 

The new mess hall, built entirely by the scouts themselves in 1917. 64 

The Camp Keesus staff of 1915. 64 

“Three o'clock brought the welcome sight of an ice field”. 102 

“The Muskegon agent, with his sled, climbed to the deck”. 102 

“We stretched our legs in games by the ship’s side”. 102 

“The crew, armed with pike poles, cut the ship loose”. 102 

“High Alpine Meadows Sprinkled With Lakes and Wild Flowers—”$. 132 

Camp Parsons, at the edge of the Olympic National Forest. 138 

Warm hiking over snow fields in August in the Olympics. 144 

A party of well-shod, well-fed scout explorers. 144 

• 

“At the edge of the virgin forest—”t. 152 

“Where the roaring stream rushes through rock-walled canyons—”. 162 

“On one of these trains our packs were loaded into an ancient tour¬ 
ing car—”. 162 

“Pitched their shelters and laid their sleeping bags on the frosty ground” 168 

“We reached Lake Kelcema”. 174 

“Some fairly steep work on a rock slide”. 174 

“Crawling along a narrow sloping ledge”. 174 


•Photograph by Harold Sparks. 
^Photograph by Claude Ritchie. 
fPhotograph by Asahel Curtis. 
Other photographs by the Author. 
































FOREWORD 


To anyone who has been connected with the Boy Scouts of 
America since its beginning thirteen years ago many rich experi¬ 
ences have inevitably come—fine friendships, unique adventures, 
interesting lessons in human engineering. In the comradeship of 
scouts one prepares always for something new and expects the 
unexpected. This the word “Scouting” itself implies. 

The aims, principles and methods of Scouting are already the 
subject of an extensive literature, and they have no place in a book 
like this, which is a narrative pure and simple of a few of the things 
that have happened here and there in the pursuit of scoutcraft. 

Men or boys just embarking on a scout career may find herein 
some promise of what is in store; veterans of the movement may 
hark back, in reading these pages, to their own parallel experiences. 
Even so, the reading of the book can hardly bring as much pleasure 
as the writing of it has afforded. Happy memories have been called 
up in the searching of journals, year books, newspaper files, and 
letters from which the material in these stories has been gathered. 
And it is interesting to realize that the comparatively “tame” ad¬ 
ventures in quite civilized surroundings are just as thrilling in rec¬ 
ollection as the more recent events that have taken place in the 
farthest western wilderness. 

There is added pleasure in all these memories because the pass¬ 
ing of time has justified the effort of leadership. Many of those 
who as scouts played a part in the incidents herein related are now 
serving as scout leaders themselves. 


Seattle, 1923. 


S. P. W. 













































Chapter One 


HOW IT ALL STARTED 

The hay-mow headquarters in Lockport—Early 
styles in uniforms and badges—The first 
camp on Treasureless Island—First aid and 
fish hooks—The musk-rat spring. 










3 









CHAPTER ONE 


How It All Started 


“Have you heard/’ asked Dwight Milner one night in the fall 
of 1910, “about a new movement called the Boy Scouts of America?” 

The young man who was thus addressed answered that he had 
not, but supposed the Boy Scouts would be the sons of the Rough 
Riders or possibly the descendents of General Custer. They were 
something different, it seemed, and Milner wanted his friend to 
help him organize in the town of Lockport, Illinois, a Boy Scout 
“patrol.” There was enthusiastic assent to this proposal, and 
within a few weeks a score of boys had quietly been recruited. 

The “western headquarters” at Chicago was appealed to for 
aid in giving the movement more impetus, and F. A. Crosby, who 
was then engaged in spreading the scout gospel, responded to the 
call. The outcome of his visit was thus reported in the local press: 

“At an enthusiastic meeting in Norton’s Opera House last 
night, attended by a large number of men and boys, the scout or¬ 
ganization in Lockport became an assured fact. After the illus¬ 
trated lecture by Mr. Crosby of Chicago, a local committee was 
formed and Mr. Stevenson was appointed Scout Commissioner. Two 
patrols have already been started and more will be organized as 
soon as possible.” 


14] 


Thirteen Years of 


One of our first difficulties was the securing of suitable head¬ 
quarters. No church or school building in the town afforded any 
proper accommodations. A vacant barn on our family homestead 
at the edge of town was the haven toward which we finally turned. 
The boys repaired its upper half-story, which had previously been 
a hayloft, lined its walls with building paper, and brushed the 
cobwebs from the rafters. Partitions were constructed to provide 
an “office,” a “meeting room,” and a “gymnasium.” The latter 
was less than eighteen feet square and only three feet high at the 
sides, but in it thrilling games of basketball were played on nights 
when the troops were not meeting. The place filled a real need, 
lured the boys from the street corners which had been their former 
haunts, and the enrollment mounted steadily. 

Many problems, most of which would seem strange to Scout¬ 
masters now, were continually arising. The scout column of the 
local paper mentioned one of them thus: 

“All scouts have been urged to provide themselves with copies 
of the official manual, which are now obtainable, so that they may 
learn what the various requirements are without continually ques¬ 
tioning the Scoutmasters. The title of the manual is, ‘A Handbook 
for Boys.’ Heretofore the lads have thought it to be a guide book 
for Scoutmasters.” 

“A little later we placed an order with A. L. Gaines and Son, 
retail merchants, for uniforms, and after a month of impatient 
waiting they arrived—soft cloth hats, high collared coats, wide 
leather belts, knickerbockers, and ungainly canvas puttees. The boys 
were quite proud of them, but found it necessary to beat up several 
gangs of the town toughs before it was safe for a scout to appear 
alone in uniform on the street. 

Scout badges and insignia, as well as uniforms, were queer 
things in those early days. Tenderfoot pins were worn on the left 
breast, second class badges on the left arm just above the elbow, 



Scout Adventure 


[15 




and first class badges on the left arm just below the shoulder. 
Patrol leaders wore two strips of white braid below the left 
shoulder. When a scout had been enrolled a year, he was entitled 
to wear a stripe of white braid around his wrists. 

The original tenderfoot badges were identical with those of the 
British scouts but very soon those of the present design appeared. 
The second and first class badges were enormous, and a first class 
patrol leader appeared at a distance to be wearing something like 
a miner’s lamp on his hat. Since that time, the second class and 
first class pins have twice been reduced in size. 

Our first organized hikes, in the spring of 1911, provided much- 
needed relief from the congested “Headquarters” Avhich was show¬ 
ing signs of weakening under its constant use. The condition was 
chronicled in the press in this paragraph: 

The mechanical strains due to the activities of heavyweight 
scouts on the second floor of Lockport’s headquarters have made 
necessary the placing of additional beams and supports to insure 
the building against total collapse.” 

A few days later the front page of the “News” carried this story 
of our first real adventure in the out-of-doors: 

“The Boy Scouts of Lockport had their first night in camp last 
night when two patrols went up the river about half way to Romeo, 
armed with blankets and provisions. About sixteen fellows, in 
charge of Mr. Stevenson and other leaders, made up the expedition. 
Stragglers home this morning report an exciting night. Sleep was 
conspicuous by its absence, and the boys stayed up nearly all night 
fighting mosquitoes, getting firewood, and generally tearing up the 
landscape. While not a success from all points of view, the camp 
was the first experience for nearly all the lads and a second one 
will probably be less thrilling.” 

The story did not mention that two of the “stragglers” came 
home in Indian costume, their limbs draped with blankets to con- 




16] 


Thirteen Years of 


ceal the absence of breeches which had burned up during the night 
where their owners had hung them on frail supports over the fire 
to dry. 

More than once that first year the pioneer scout leaders of 
Lockport were ready to throw up the whole enterprise—kids were 
so perverse, the program seemed so hard to put across, and intelli¬ 
gent aid from parents and others was so sadly lacking—but some¬ 
how we discounted our discouragements and went ahead. 

Having survived the first winter w r e naturally thought of the 
summer in terms of that word of great magic in Scouting— 
C-A-M-P. The Scoutmaster thought he knew something about camp¬ 
ing. He had camped with his father, a real woodsman and camper, 
and he had subsisted for as long as ten days at a stretch on his own 
cooking. The urge was strong to teach the kids the lore he thought 
he knew. Considered in the quiet of his comfortable home, camp 
was going to be a season of absolutely unmixed joy. 

In his capacity as reporter for the Joliet Daily News he an¬ 
nounced through its columns what great things were in store. 

“As the time when most of the scouts of Lockport will be under 
canvas on the banks of the Kankakee is rapidly approaching, many 
of the parents are asking questions concerning the safety, cost, 
activities and benefits of the simple life as the Scouts will live it. 

“The Lockport Scouts, some of whom will leave for Wilmington 
on Monday, have completed the plans for the management of the 
camp, and their leaders have worked out a scheme whereby each boy 
will be assessed two dollars and eighty-five cents for each week, this 
amount to cover absolutely all expenses, including transportation, 
board, boat hire, etc. It is believed that this is a remarkably cheap 
outing. 

“The camp site is a small island about a mile and a half down 
stream from Wilmington. The river is wide at this point and the 
water is not deep, the sandy bottom sloping very gradually out 
from shore, affording a safe place for beginning swimmers as well 
as providing good boating. 




Scout Adventure 


[17 


“The camp activities will include all the regular scout work, 
and special attention will be paid to swimming and boat manage¬ 
ment. The boys will be taught how to perform the various camp 
duties, doing their own cooking and washing and everything from 
A to Z in camp housekeeping generally.” 

Two days after our camp was established, another story in 
the “News” started off like this: 

“The lads who left Lockport Monday morning have passed two 
nights under canvas and with all the details of camp organization 
adjusted and the routine running smoothly, are beginning to enjoy 
the simple life. 

“The boys are aroused to the fun and work of the day by 
‘Reveille’ by a bugler at 6:30. Then those who are appointed for 
mess duty get busy with the fire, and after a wash in the river, 
start the bacon or the ‘wienies.’ When these are fried, the pan¬ 
cakes are made and then the mess call is sounded.” 

The article went on to describe the rest of the daily program, 
which for the purposes of this present narrative is not important. 
On the morning after its publication, our farm neighbor came 
over to the island and summoned the Scoutmaster to receive a 
long distance telephone call. At the other end of the line an ex¬ 
cited mother demanded that her son be sent directly home; she 
wouldn’t have him in a place where such terrible things happened 
as she had just been reading about in the “Daily News.” 

When asked to explain herself further, she said she had read 
how “burglars were revealed in camp at 6:30 in the morning.” 
She was finally pacified, but not until after a careful reading of 
the article did the Scoutmaster discover that what she referred to 
was the paragraph about “Reveille at 6:30” above quoted. 

The same article mentioned that “the First Aid kit is a good 
deal in evidence, and one scout got a fish hook in his finger so that 
he had to be taken to a doctor in Wilmington to have it removed.” 



18] 


Thirteen Years of 


The victim of the fish-hook incident was Danny Puthoff, who 
harpooned the base of his middle finger while attempting a cast 
with a hook large enough to impale a shark. He came running to 
me with the request that I take it out. A glance showed that the 
hook was in clear beyond the barb, and couldn’t be pulled out with¬ 
out making a much more extensive wound. I told him that he 
would have to go to a doctor, but he rebelled sharply, refusing to 
do any such thing and repeating his insistent demand that I do 
the job—“even if it does hurt a lot.” 

Feeling that strategy would serve better than argument, I 
ordered preparations made for the operation. Four of the largest 
boys in camp were called and instructed to hold Danny still when 
the time came. Meanwhile his arm was tied securely to the top of 
a table, and the camp butcher knife was washed in hot water and 
vigorously sharpened. 

Danny grew pale, but still stuck it out, so I told the four assist¬ 
ants to lay hold of him firmly, and to hold on tight, no matter how 
much he might yell, as otherwise the knife might slip and do serious 
damage. 

Murmuring something about not liking to do this without an 
anaesthetic, I picked up the knife, felt tentatively of its razor edge, 
and approached the patient. 

“Wait! Wait! I’ll go to the doctor!” he cried in sudden sur¬ 
render, and when we had released him from the operating table he 
started off willingly, accompanied by one of the erstwhile tortur¬ 
ers. The doctor gave him a locql anaesthetic, filed off the hook, 
and pulled the end of it through, all of which interested Danny 
very much. To his fellow scouts back at camp he said that he 
would just as soon have had me do it, but he wanted to see what 
an “antithetic” felt like. 

Another high light in the recollections of that camp concerns 
the famous “spring” discovered just across the river from the island 




Scout Adventure 


[ 19 


by Dick Milford. We need no longer go as far as the farm pump, 
Dick said, because there was plenty of cold clear water in this 
spring at the river’s edge. 

We mistrusted Dick, because on the previous day he had 
brought a bucket of water which he said he got from the “other 
well” at the farm because he didn’t like the flavor of the iron water 
which came from the well the farmer had asked us to use. Investi¬ 
gation had revealed that this other well without the iron seasoning 
was a surface well used only for watering the stock! 

Dick was horrified to learn that his spring, which we proceeded 
to inspect, was a muskrat hole leading down from a field drain 
ditch whence it received its water. Dick hoped that he wouldn’t die 
from the effects of the “mush-rat water,” and was very much wor¬ 
ried for several days, but no untoward symptoms developed. 

The camp ran through its appointed three weeks, and weathered 
storm as well as sunshine. Then its tents were folded and Luther’s 
Island knew its gypsies no more. 

In the last report of the camp printed in the “Daily News” 
occurred this paragraph: 

“The camp has been a decided success from every standpoint. 

Not only have the boys enjoyed themselves to the limit, but they 
have learned a good many things about the practical side of camp 
life, and all the time they have been under strict discipline calcu¬ 
lated to be of great value to them. 

“A surprising fact is that notwithstanding the remarkably low 
price charged the scouts the leaders came out ahead by a consider¬ 
able amount. They demonstrated that it is possible to feed a hungry 
boy in camp with a variety of wholesome food for less than $1.50 a 
week, which is believed to be considerably less than the expense of 
boarding most boys at home. 

“The amount which has been saved will be refunded to the 
parents of the boys proportionately, on the basis of the number of 
days spent in camp.” 



20] 


Thirteen Years of Scout Adventure 


I wonder liow those parents would feel now to recall that they 
once received a refund made because it was found possible “to 
feed a boy a variety of wholesome food for considerably less than 
$1.50 per w T eek!” It is hard to realize that this happened only 
thirteen years ago. 

The article in the “News” did not mention that there was one 
occasion at least, when the “strict discipline” of the camp was pos¬ 
sibly open to question. Rev. Mr. E. T. Kreuger, the Scoutmaster 
of Troop One, one day visited summary court-martial upon Roscoe 
Wolfe, who was not then a scout, by causing him to be immersed 
in the Kankakee river. On the day following, Mr. Kreuger was 
departing for Lockport, dressed in his ministerial best and all set 
to function at a wedding, when Wolfe tripped him on the river 
bank, and cried out above the sound of the loud splash that fol¬ 
lowed, “Now we’re even, ain’t we?” 






Chapter Two 


THE FIRST INVASION OF MICHIGAN 

The search for a wilderness—Scoutmaster Mer¬ 
ritt Lamb—An eighteen-mile row—The sand 
cure for mosquitoes—A marine roller-coaster. 

















CHAPTER TWO 


The First Invasion Op Michigan 

An island on the Kankakee river was too tame to satisfy the 
adventurous souls in Troop Two of Lockport for more than one 
season. We listened to the call of the wild, and the next spring, 
in a bulletin to parents, we answered it in part like this: 

“The camp for Lockport scouts this year (1912) will be located 
on the shore of Lake Michigan, midway between Muskegon and 
Grand Haven. This more distant site lias been chosen because the 
climate of Michigan is better for camping in summer than that of 
Illinois, and because a camp on the shore of the big lake will be a 
novel and interesting experience for the boys to enjoy. The beach 
is gradually shelving and safe, the woods behind the camp will pro¬ 
vide fine opportunities for all kinds of scout activity, and there is 
an abundance of pure water from a convenient spring. 

“The cost will be only slightly more than for last year’s camp— 
|2.50 per week for three weeks, including all transportation from 
Lockport to Chicago and from Chicago to Muskegon on the Goodrich 

steamer,” 

How this price was managed I can’t remember, but I don’t 
recall that there was any financial loss. Those days are gone 
forever! 

The choosing of this new site came about on a trip of investi- 


Thirteen Years op 


24 ] 


gation which the scoutmaster made early in July. On his return 
from this trip he reported it to Ray Jordan in a letter reading 
thus: 


“We are going to a point on the Lake Michigan beach about 
eight miles south of Muskegon, and one-half mile south of Mt. 
Garfield, the highest point on the Lake Michigan shore. Our camp 
will be just behind a low hill which rises directly from the beach, 
so that we shall be sheltered from the high winds. A little creek 
is nearby, affording a harbor and good swimming when the lake may 
be too cold. The camp is clear except for a heavy growth of rasp¬ 
berry and other fruit bushes, which will be very acceptable adjuncts 
to our commissary department. The surrounding hills are covered 
with pine trees, whose boughs will make heavenly beds. An old 
logging road, long unused, runs along the creek right past the camp 
site back to the main Grand Haven-Muskegon road, about a mile 
and a half away. On the main road are farms which will supply 
our milk, eggs, and other fresh products. These farms are the near¬ 
est habitation, and the nearest store is at Muskegon. The Muskegon 
scouts are camping in a location not as good as ours, about three- 
quarters of a mile away. Up the beach about three miles is Lake 
Harbor entrance and Lake Harbor hotel. A little steamer which 
touches here affords our nearest communication with Muskegon. 

“I went out and spent last week-end with the Muskegon scouts 
in their camp, and I certainly had a great time. I had planned to 
explore for a site by myself, but I heard about this camp on my 
arrival at Muskegon, and got acquainted with the scout commissioner 
there. Sunday morning three of his scouts came to the hotel and 
guided me out to the camp. The scoutmaster in charge of the camp 
is a fine young fellow named Merritt Lamb. About twenty-five were 
in the camp. After a big mid-day spread, he detailed several boys 
to help find a location for our camp and we finally discovered the 
place already described. While going along the beach we found a 
launch drifting in the high waves a little way out. The men 
in her were afraid her ground tackle wouldn’t hold, and her engine 
didn’t work. We launched the big life-boat which belongs to the 
Muskegon camp and went out to tow the launch into the mouth of the 



Scout Adventure 


[25 


creek. A little hard work, and quite exciting. The hoys handled 
the boat like a man-of-war’s-men. 

“I spent the night in the camp, and made pancakes for the 
cooks next morning. They had never had pancakes in camp before. 
After breakfast we went down to the beach and had some life-saving 
drill. Mr. Lamb went out in a canoe and fell overboard, and a boat's 
crew went out and rescued him in very realistic fashion, restoring 
him quite correctly when we got him ashore. In the afternoon some 
of the boys rowed me down to Lake Harbor, and I returned to Chi¬ 
cago on the night boat.” 

Acquaintance with Merritt Lamb was one of the high spots 
of my early years of Scouting. He afterward became Commissioner 
at Muskegon, and finally Scout Executive. He was one of the 
rare gentlemen of youth and fine enthusiasm who found in Scouting 
a splendid satisfaction and who sensed to the full its value as 
affording opportunity for inspiring and helpful comradeship with 
boys. 

Merritt Lamb was killed overseas in the war. So far had he 
endeared himself to the friends of his home town that the Muskegon 
post of the American Legion was named in his honor. His brother 
later became the Scout Executive there, carrying forward as a 
joyful duty the work that Merritt had so well begun. 

The patience, cheerfulness, fairness, and personal encourage¬ 
ment practised so spontaneously by Merritt Lamb in his camp 
during my brief visits to it that summer will always be remembered. 
Just before his death he had completed the collection of a number 
of poems he had written, intending to publish them under the title, 
“My Scout.” After his death his brother sent the entire edition 
to Mr. J. P. Freeman, National Field Executive at Chicago, who 
gave me a number of copies. 

One of these poems, “The Omniscient Scoutmaster,” ran in 
part like this: 



26 ] 


Thirteen Years of 


“Can you tell me who’s the fellow 
That we see a hiking by, 

With the bunch of boys behind him, 
With the twinkle in his eye? 

“He’s the master of the Boy Scouts, 

And a hero, too, as well, 

For I know a little laddie, 

And I’ve often heard him tell. 

“He must be a mountain climber, 

And a camper to be sure, 

And the famous story teller 
Of the corner grocery store. 

“He must be the family doctor. 

And the fire chief and the cop; 

He must be a wireless ticker 
With an insulated top! 

“He must have the pep of pepper, 

And the wit of Pat and Mike; 

He must be a Charlie Chaplin, 

Just to cheer along the hike. 

“Gee, but how they shoot him questions; 

Why, it is a holy fright! 

And they all expect an answer, 

And an answer that is right! 

“He must be a David Crockett, 

He must be an Edison, 

He must be a Noah Webster, 

And a wise old Solomon. 

“He must know each tree and flower, 
Each and every bird and bug; 

Know the names of cars and busses 
By their far-off muffled chug. 



[27 


Scout Adventure 


“He must have the faith of Moses, 

He must have the grit of Grant, 

He must have the stick of stickum 
And the can instead of can't! 

“He must be a patient teacher, 

And believe what he would teach; 

He must be a faithful preacher; 

Practice, too, as well as well as preach. 

“Oh, it’s great to be a leader 
In this Scouting for the boy, 

And to feel so young and happy, 

That you nearly bust for joy!” 

Our Michigan camp of 1912 was a very crude affair, as camps 
now run, but it seemed adequate enough then. In these days of 
finer developments a troop going to a well-equipped council camp 
would probably wonder how we got along comfortably for three 
weeks with two tents and an open trench fire several miles from 
any habitation, but we did not know then that anything was lack¬ 
ing to make our camp complete. 

In the first place, we had a perfectly fierce time getting there. 
We landed at Muskegon after a wakeful night on the steamer 
“Alabama,” with Rosey, Henry Peck, Dick Milford, and other no¬ 
torious members of the Lockport troops, and proceeded to rent a 
boat for our camp. This done, we loaded into the boat, which was 
a fourteen foot skiff, baggage and equipment that brought its free¬ 
board down to iess than three inches. Then Rosey and the Scout¬ 
master undertook to row this ark to camp, a little matter of 
eighteen miles, twelve of them on Lake Michigan. Interested citi¬ 
zens who gathered at the dock to see us start out predicted that 
we’d never reach the lighthouse channel, but we got that far by 
noon, rested on our oars to dine sumptuously on sweet chocolate. 

Faintly refreshed, we pulled into the mile-long channel at the 




28] 


Thirteen Years of 


dizzy speed of three miles per hour, and shortly lay to in moun¬ 
tainous seas when a tug foamed past. Our deck-load was still 
intact except for one suitcase, which we rescued with some diffi¬ 
culty from the water before bailing out our craft, which was nearly 
swamped in the tug’s wake. Nothing got wet except most of the 
blankets. We sailed nervously out into the big lake, and headed 
south. 

Fortunately a dead calm overspread the surface, and we had 
nothing to fear except the possibility of complete exhaustion before 
we should reach our goal. Eventually we landed late in the after¬ 
noon, at the mouth of Mud Creek and staggered over the low sand 
hill to our camp site, where the rest of the outfit had already ar¬ 
rived via interurban and foot. After that first day everything 
seemed easy. At night came mosquitoes, thick and fast. The ones 
that weren’t thick were especially fast, and they were the peculiar 
“Michigan noiseless” variety. It was evident that we couldn’t cope 
with them every night with any hope of success, and the next day 
we counseled anxiously about it. We were used to mosquitoes, and 
didn’t mind a reasonable number lunching off our maps, but these 
beasts were fiendish. We solved the difficulty by sleeping out on 
the lake beach, where the mosquitoes apparently never ventured, 
and there we spent each succeeding night unmolested. 

For the first time we became acquainted with sand mattresses. 
The soft clean beach sand, so pleasant to play in, appeared to be 
ideally adapted to the support of the reclining human form, but 
we discovered that it became as hard as concrete before morning. 
After we learned to wriggle into a comfortable “form” or “mold,” 
however, and to scoop out a suitable hip-hole before we went to 
sleep, we found the sand beds very satisfactory. 

Our life at “Camp Garfield” was very simple. Every day we 
hiked a mile to the road where a farmer left our milk, and half a 
mile to the spring which supplied our water. Sand percolated 




Scout Adventure 


[29 


into our food, saturated our blankets, and filled our eyes whenever 
a breeze stirred. An ideal camp site?—Well, it was so novel and 
so comparatively wild that we were well pleased; yet a few miles 
down this same shore a few years later we were to establish a camp 
as different from this one as could be imagined. 

We visited Mr. Lamb and the Muskegon scouts frequently, 
and on one occasion they feasted us with apple pie, scout-made in 
a mud oven. Barring the fact that they had run out of sugar 
before they baked the pies, and hadn’t been able to get any to 
relieve the extreme sourness of the apples, it was fairly good. They 
thought it was great. 

One day we hiked to Mount Garfield, from which the camp got 
its name—the highest sand-hill on that part of the Michigan shore, 
from the top of which quite a view was afforded. We slid down, 
wearing our breeches to tissue-paper thinness, which later caused 
considerable trouble. That night I found a nest of field mice in 
my good clothes, which were then already ruined. Rosey suggested 
the use of moth balls to prevent such things in the future. 

On another day when the waves were high on the lake, Henry 
Peck, a scout of large size and ability, went out with the scoutmas¬ 
ter in the small boat for a little fun. Big combers were breaking 
on all three of the sand bars, which, in graduated shallowness, 
extended along the shore, but by pure good fortune the boat passed 
them all without being swamped and was soon out on deep water. 
Seven-foot or eight-foot waves were running, but the wind wasn't 
freshening, so there were few white-caps and therefore no great 
danger. 

To the remaining campers who watched from the shore, how¬ 
ever, it looked different. In each wave-trough the boat disappeared 
entirely from view, and to the watchers on the beach the line of 
foaming breakers appeared to extend clear to the horizon. 

The two boatmen were having a wonderful time. First pitched 




30] 


Thirteen Years of 


high on a wave crest and then tobogganed into a deep trough, they 
felt that this was far better than any sport the Kankakee river had 
to offer. 

Presently they tried to turn back toward shore, when a series 
of unusually high waves caused Peck, who was steering, to change 
his mind and head the boat again out to sea until a more favorable 
opportunity. We didn’t want to be caught broadside in a trough. 

This maneuver was observed from the shore, where one of the 
boys was watching through the Scoutmaster’s telescope, and it was 
taken as conclusive evidence that we couldn’t come ashore and were 
being helplessly set out into the open lake. With commendable 
zeal and resourcefulness two of the boys immediately started at 
scouts’ pace for the nearest farm-house telephone, about three miles, 
to telephone the Coast Guard station at Muskegon the news of our 
plight. Meanwhile, ignorant of the panic on shore, we tried again 
to head in, this time successfully, and soon approached the line of 
breakers. Going through these was the real thrill of the whole 
enterprise, but we watched for a good chance and took it, coasting 
in on a low wave that didn’t break until it hit the innermost bar. 
So with great speed and grace we made the shore, to the surprise 
and distress of our party who proceeded to ask us why we didn’t 
wait for the life-boat. 

Additional messengers were dispatched after the first ones to 
call off the Coast Guards, and things continued their normal course. 
We both agreed that no roller-coaster or other thrilling ride at Riv- 
erview or any other amusement park was half as good fun. 

There came a day when we gathered our simple outfit together 
and took passage, behind an ancient steed, on a farm wagon bound 
for Muskegon. The trip across the lake was one of the roughest 



Scout Adventure 


[31 


we ever saw. Dick and I ate our lunches on deck with great relish 
in full view of numerous hapless passengers who cast their bread 
upon the waters. That was the last time we ever were on a restless 
boat without doing likewise. 








Chapter Three 


THE TWENTY-THIRD CHICAGO TROOP 

A scribe who knew his stuff—A heavyweight 
tenderfoot—L. L. McDonald and James E. 
West—Roast turkey without gravy. 























































Above—The Scoutmaster and a Patrol of Lockport Troop 2 in 1911. 
Note the soft canvas hats, leather belts and knickerbockers which 

were then the official uniform. 

Below—Famous Members of Chicago 23; “Henry Thomson, One of 
the Live Ones,” and Adrian Kraus, “Cheer# and Substantial.” 







CHAPTER THREE 


The Twenty-Third Chicago Troop 


Having accumulated a rather modest fortune as a reporter on 
the Joliet Daily News at a weekly salary of eight dollars, the 
Scoutmaster of Lockport Troop Two left his surviving charges in 
other hands and entered the University of Chicago. The next fall 
L. L. McDonald, then the Chicago Executive, conducted a Scout¬ 
masters Training Course at the University. Mac had a persuasive 
line of talk and in a few weeks the 23rd Chicago troop, which had 
been without leadership for the past year, found itself with a new 
Scoutmaster. 

The assets of this troop at that time consisted of a fairly good 
meeting place, a not too unfriendly janitor, and half a dozen live 
scouts. There were other scouts, but they fell under the head of 
liabilities rather than assets. One of the half dozen live ones was 
a slender little fellow with vigorous teeth and an oversupply of 
curly black hair, who admitted that he was the scribe and that his 
name was Henry E. Thomson, Jr., spelled without a “p.” 

He came to see the new Scoutmaster at the Reynolds Club at 
the University, with the scribe’s record book and a large fund of 
personal information about the troop. Though it had been in exist- 
ance only about three years, it had had more than one hundred 
names on its roll, but its strength had at no one time exceeded forty. 


36] 


Thirteen Years op 


Henry knew just who could be counted on and who couldn’t, and 
he said that if the troop could have some hikes and if the Scout¬ 
master would attend most of the meetings it might easily become 
a worth-while outfit. 

The meetings were held in the basement of the Crerar Presby¬ 
terian church at 57th Street and Prairie Avenue. That South-side 
neighborhood was exclusively one of flats rather than homes, and 
the boys appreciated Scouting especially as a program of outdoor 
fun. Things moved along fairly well, and gradually the troop grew 
and prospered. 

One of the recruits who joined in the first few months was 
Adrian Kraus, destined to become the champion heavyweight mem¬ 
ber of the organization; in fact never since have I seen so comfort¬ 
ably stout and yet actively ambitious a member of any scout troop 
anywhere. Adrian made up in determination what he lacked in 
speed, and his unfailing fund of original humor was the life of 
many a hike and troop meeting. He stayed with the troop until he 
became an assistant Scoutmaster. Henry Thomson stayed too; of 
him more later on. 

Another recruit of that year who later became famous was 
Ray Overholtz, whose faithfulness and intelligence won for him the 
responsibilities of troop scribe when Thomson was found to be 
more valuable as a patrol leader. For four years these three scouts 
figured more actively in every phase of troop activity than any 
others, though many other fine fellows had almost equal claims to 
fame and fortune. 

While a Scoutmaster at Lockport, I had attended, with Ray 
Jordan, some of the early gatherings of scout leaders in Chicago, 
becoming well acquainted with such pioneers as F. A. Crosby, 
H. H. Simmons, D. W. Pollard, O. W. Neeves, and others who 
blazed the trail in the first years. 

In those first meetings the matters discussed were quite dif- 



Scout Adventure 


[37 


ferent from those with which Scoutmasters now concern themselves. 
Great emphasis was placed upon the size of the troop as an evidence 
of able leadership, and when the roll of those present was called 
each man was expected to give his name, location, and the number 
on his membership list. Anyone who reported only thirty or forty 
boys got a polite murmur of applause, but a man who could get up 
and boast of one hundred or more in his ranks was cheered enthu¬ 
siastically. 

The question of what kind of a uniform to urge the National 
office to adopt, how to raise funds to equip bands, drum corps, and 
of disciplining unruly spirits—these were the chief topics of in¬ 
terest. 

Even in 1914, when Pollard and McDonald were shaping the 
Chicago organization into a semblance of completeness and sound 
development, things were still quite crude. The chief indoor sport 
at the Scoutmasters’ meetings was complaining of the ignorance, 
or slowness, or perverseness of the National headquarters—not that 
anybody really lacked confidence in the national leaders, or meant 
to be disloyal—but there had not yet been established through per¬ 
sonal contact and thorough determination of policy the close rela¬ 
tionships which were later built up and which have held the whole 
Movement in such remarkable unity. 

Great excitement prevailed at one of these leaders’ gatherings 
when it was announced that James E. West would be present the 
next month and would meet with us. Many of the men had not yet 
met him; there was great curiosity as to what our national leader 
would be like. Plans were laid for his reception, the general senti¬ 
ment being that this would be a fine chance to tell him, as man to 
man, what the field needed and wanted, and to hear from him what 
the future of the movement might appear to hold in store. 

The meeting was held, as was customary, in the Lincoln Inn 
on LaSalle Street, a basement cafeteria. I recall that in the course 



38] 


Thirteen Years of 


of his remarks Mr. West said that on each of his visits to Chicago 
he had spoken in a basement, and he hoped that Chicago Scouting 
would eventually grow out of the basement level. Mr. West’s ad¬ 
dress was so much more courageous and inspiring than anything 
we were prepared for that he won the lasting respect and good will 
of every man who was present, and his clear-cut and vigorous re¬ 
plies to the many questions which were put to him in the discussion 
which followed gave us all a high confidence in the wisdom of our 
national leadership. Since that first meeting I have seen the Chief 
Executive on many occasions and in many places; and I have noted 
always the same remarkable impression made upon his hearers. 
For such statesmanship, especially through its first decade of dan¬ 
ger and uncertainty, the movement has reason to be deeply grateful. 

Others of the Chicago officials who made a lasting impression 
by their ability and helpfulness were E. A. Halsey, then Scout 
Commissioner, Dr. H. W. Gentles, Scout Surgeon, whose untiring 
interest made First Aid a well-developed craft in Chicago Scouting, 
and A. Stamford White, the first president of the Chicago council. 
In the development of the 23rd troop, as in the development of many 
others, these men lent a helping hand, and the association with 
them was one of the special privileges of the leadership of a scout 
troop in the city. 

We celebrated the troop’s anniversary that year with a ‘‘Din¬ 
ner for Dads” which the scouts cooked and served themselves en¬ 
tirely unassisted. The mothers viewed the undertaking with alarm, 
and the dads came mainly out of curiosity. However, things went 
off very well. The turkey was tender, the mashed potatoes were 
creamy, and the cake was light. The only embarrassment was when 
the scoutmaster found it necessary to announce that the chefs had 
forgotten to make any gravy. 

With the coming of spring the thoughts of the 23rd troopers 
naturally turned toward the summer camp. By means of the Cur- 



Scout Adventure 


[39 


tis Publishing Company’s troop finance plan then in effect we got 
together enough funds for about twenty-five of the fellows to go; 
the others had to work throughout the summer or were going off 
with their folks. A very few weren’t able to secure parental per¬ 
mission, though because of the good offices of the troop committee 
in calling upon the timid mothers and the neutral fathers, this 
number was very small. 





Chapter Four 


EXPLORATIONS ON THE EAST COAST 

The second invasion of Michigan—A sand-pav¬ 
ed boulevard—The strategy of foraging— 
Good turns by the Coast Guard. 


















CHAPTER FOUR 


Explorations On The “East Coast” 


The first year of the 23rd troop, the summer camp was on Lake 
Keesus, Waukesha County, Wisconsin, the boyhood camping ground 
of the Scoutmaster and his father. Here, as elsewhere, the advance 
of civilization destroyed the seclusion of the wildness and it was a 
question of a short time only when the wilderness itself in that 
region •would be entirely obliterated. In the quest for a new camp¬ 
site the director’s thoughts naturally turned again to Michigan’s 
wilder shore. Foresight and experience dictated this time the care¬ 
ful choosing of a site that would be as nearly ideal as possible and 
safe from encroachment for years to come. 

So an exploring trip was planned, to cover a hundred miles 
of the shore line from Ludington to Holland, within which terri¬ 
tory it was felt that the ideal spot could be found. 

A Pere Marquette steamer landed us at Ludington the day 
after Camp Keesus closed its final season on the lake which gave 
it the name, and we found ourselves again in the land of sand and 
pine trees. There were nine in the party—the camp director and 
his assistant with seven boys. We hiked out from Ludington to the 
beach and hit the sandy boulevard southward. 

For miles along the eastern Lake Michigan shore the beach 
stretches in an almost unbroken line, except where streams enter 


44] 


Thirteen Years of 


or where cave-ins caused by winter storms have occurred, and on 
all but very rough days when the waves drive clear across this sandy 
expanse, the firm wet sand just at the water’s edge provides an 
almost ideal traction surface for hikers’ feet. 

It is ideal in all respects but one; it slopes, usually very gently, 
toward the water, and this slope tends after several days to lengthen 
one’s off-shore leg and cramp the inshore member. Whenever we 
suddenly turned about to retrace our steps for a short distance, 
the effect was quite painful and ridiculous. 

Except for our pilgrimages to Starved Rock, this was our first 
really long hike, and on this expedition we were carrying full 
equipment for eating, wearing, and sleeping, whereas on the Starved 
Rock trips we had carried no blankets and very little grub. Being 
green at the business of real packing, therefore, several difficulties 
soon developed; the blankets which we carried in diagonal shoulder 
rolls impeded our progress, cooking utensils prodded our backs or 
banged against our hips, and our packs were heavy. 

On the Young Peoples’ feature page of the Chicago Tribune of 
October 31st, Oney Fred Sweet printed the following account of 
our enterprise: 

“When a Boy Scout goes on a long hike there are three things 
that he likes to be sure of—good walking, something to see, and 
convenient camping places where wood and water are abundant 
and mosquitoes scarce. 

“Boys from Camp Keesus where the Twenty-third Chicago troop 
spends its summer outings, have taken the trail at the close of the 
camp season and have discovered on the east shore of Lake Michi¬ 
gan a hikers’ paradise. 

“The trip was from Ludington south to Holland, 100 miles. 

The boys made it in seven days, walking on the hard, smooth sand 
at the water’s edge. They might have gone faster, but there were 
several things to see on the way. They climbed the clay banks, the 
highest hills along the shore; they explored the barrens north of 




Scout Adventure 


[45 


the point, where immense moving sand hills are burying forests 
several miles in extent. They visited Pentwater and Whitehall 
with their packs on their backs, and the residents debated whether 
they were part of a circus or a medicine show. 

“Each night they camped on the lake shore, where dry driftwood 
for fires was always abundant, and spread their blankets under the 
stars on the clean, dry sand. One night when clouds appeared the 
pup tents were pitched, but the precaution proved unnecessary. 
Each morning breakfast was cooked, beds were rolled up, mess kits 
were cleaned, and the boys moved forward to new scenes—and 
another farmhouse. 

“A farm meal about once a day adds substantially to the joy 
of hiking, and farmers’ wives are still hospitable. A woman who 
served the hikers a dinner which they will never forget refused to 
take any pay for it, saying that the boys were ‘welcome to what she 
had’. 

“ ‘But we’re not in the habit of taking meals without paying 
for them’, the hike leader protested. 

“ ‘Well, I’m not in the habit of running a restaurant, either, 
and you’d better start right on, because if you stop to talk to me 
you won’t feel like getting up till near supper time, and I couldn’t 
feed you again’, she replied. 

“With a square farm meal almost daily and plenty of their own 
grub for breakfast and dinner every one of the hikers gained in 
weight in spite of the strenuous program.’’ 

Our first day of travel brought us to King’s Canyon, a beau¬ 
tiful deep gully leading back through high cliffs from the beach 
to the higher farm country. We explored this natural wonder fully, 
and at its head found shelter for the night in the hay-mow of a 
friendly farmer, who filled us and our available carrying space, 
which wasn’t much, with apples from his orchard. 

As the first day was “Apple Day,” the second day was ‘‘Peach 
Day,” for we ran into miles of peach orchards near Pentwater and 
consumed more of the ripe fruit than was consistent with our hik¬ 
ing schedule. 




46] 


Thirteen Years of 


There was real strategy in the securing of our farm-house din¬ 
ners; they didn’t just happen to us. Our most successful plan of 
campaign was this: 

About four in the afternoon we would ascend from the beach 
to the high and inhabited country behind; usually a road ran 
fairly close to the lake shore. We would follow the road until a 
fairly prosperous looking farm house came into view; about two 
blocks from it we would halt and send forward our skirmishers. 
Generally these were Markvart—long, lean, and hungry-looking, 
and Tuthill or Serviss—small, appealing, and packing a winning 
smile. 

Their tactics were these: they approached the farm house 
slowly as if very weary, with their packs on their backs, and 
knocked timidly on the kitchen door. To the housewife who an¬ 
swered they spoke most politely, inquiring the distance to the next 
town, which was generally considerable. 

Depressed at the information received, they would turn to each 
other and say, “Do you suppose we can make it by night? We 
won’t have grub enough to last until tomorrow, will we?” 

Then to the housewife one of them would say: “Could we buy 
a little milk and bread here, if you please, in case you have any 
to spare?” 

This line was what the vaudeville folks call a “sure-fire hit”; 
it never failed to melt the housewife’s heart. In every instance her 
response was an invitation to stop right there for supper, and wel¬ 
come to such as her board might afford. 

At this the wayfarers would look more distressed than before, 
and would decline, with obvious regret, her hospitality. Then they 
would explain, timidly, that there were seven others back down 
the road a little ways, and it wouldn’t be right to “ditch” them. 

By this time the lady’s sympathy would be so far aroused that 
she couldn’t do otherwise than extend her invitation to include the 






Above—“Each night we camped on the beach—” 

“Each morning we moved on to new scenes-*-” 
Below—The Rescue of Thomson From the Ice Berg. (See Chapter IX.) 
The scout on the right is Lopez, hero of the sand dunes. 








. 






















































Scout Adventure 


[47 


whole outfit. The news of the successful issue would be signaled 
down the road, and in a few minutes the entire gang would be rest¬ 
ing in the back yard or offering their services to assist in any pos¬ 
sible way with meal preparations. 

This was a typical bill of fare for one of these scraped-together- 
in-a-hurry-but-maybe-better-than-nothing suppers: Boiled ham, 
creamed potatoes, hot biscuits, lima beans, jam, green onions, milk, 
peaches, berry shortcake. Some were better even than this; few 
were any worse. 

After each of these banquets we arose with earnest expressions 
of pleasure and gratefulness and asked how much it would be. We 
always asked this in good faith, but we learned not to fear the 
answer; often nothing was accepted, and the highest charge was on 
an occasion when a smiling woman who had apparently exhausted 
her entire larder in our behalf asked timidly if fifteen cents apiece 
would be too much. At one place the charge was fifty cents—for 
the entire party. 

Was this un-scoutlike procedure? Was it an imposition on the 
countryside? We really worried a little about this, but decided 
that our program was entirely ethical. Did we ask for any hand¬ 
outs? We did not. Our only proposals were for the purchase of 
supplies; only by the most subtle implication did we sell the house¬ 
wives the idea of inviting us in to eat them out of house and home. 
And then did we not offer, in fact beg—though not too hard—the 
hostess to accept a just compensation? We did. 

After all we really provided a treat for the folk with whom we 
visited, for in those days automobiles were unknown on the farm, 
good highways hadn’t been thought of seriously, and the rural 
population along that coast were glad enough to have any diver¬ 
sion from the monotony of their own society day after day. Our 
hosts and hostesses always declared, and I believe they meant it, 



48] 


Thirteen Years op 


that they had enjoyed the event of our coming as much as we had— 
and that was saying a good deal. 

In these days of paved highways and unending processions of 
tourist-laden autos, with a flivver or two in every farmer’s barn, 
I suppose such respectable vagabonding in that territory would be 
impossible—hence the memory of it is doubly cherished. 

Always as we looked southward we were on the lookout for a 
permanent camp site, and though we found many possibilities, none 
of them appealed to us strongly until we came to a point about 
nine miles south of Grand Haven, where there was a large tree- 
fringed meadow on a low bluff back of a wide and level beach. It 
was close to a road, which wasn’t much traveled, it was four miles 
from a railroad station, and Grand Haven was the nearest steamer 
port. A more detailed description of it can be left to another chap¬ 
ter, for it became our eventual choice. In all that hundred miles 
we found nothing as suitable, and we have never seen anything 
better since. 

Our pilgrimage ended at Holland, where we were eyed suspi¬ 
ciously by a policeman who took us for common tramps. Our scout 
certificates reassured him, but we decided that a visit to a barber 
and clothing repair man would be advisable before we mingled with 
the respectable passengers on the steamer “Puritan” bound for 
Chicago. 

On the trip down the sandy boulevard we had composed a song, 
to the tune of a then famous popular favorite, which served briefly 
to summarize our principal experiences. It ran thus: 

“I’ve got sand on my fingers, 

And sand on my toes— 

Sand on my eyebrows, 

And sand up my nose! 



Scout Adventure 


[49 


I’ve got sand in my whiskers, 
And sand in my ears— 

Oh, the sand of Lake Michigan 
I’ll not lose for years! 

“I’ve had sand for my breakfast, 
And sand for my lunch; 

Sand on my sandwich— 

Sand adds the punch! 

I get sand in my cocoa, 

And sand in my tea; 

And when I look most anywhere, 
Just sand is all I see!” 












Chapter Five 


PIONEER DAYS AT CAMP KEESUS 

A heritage from Indians and lumberjacks—Nine 
homesick tenderfeet—The midnight ride of 
Mr. Sachs—Scouts who liked hard work— 
Mr. Neeves, Mr. Drake, and other famous 
characters. 















CHAPTER FIVE 


Pioneer Days At Camp Keesus 


That summer of 1915 was another season of pioneering in the 
establishment of a camp. Our chosen site on Lake Michigan was 
as nearly ideal as could be imagined, but it was absolutely unde¬ 
veloped. Appraising its advantages as accurately as possible, we 
described it in our printed circular as follows: 

“CAMP KEESUS is a simple summer program of vigorous Scout 
life in a wonderful location. 

“The camp is on the Lake Michigan shore nine miles south of 
Grand Haven, Mich., and three miles east of the station of Agnew 
on the Pere Marquette railroad. The situation has in remarkable 
combination the advantages of great natural beauty, perfect drain¬ 
age, pure water, freedom from insects, and a splendid climate. 

“The tents will be pitched in a broad tree-enclosed meadow on 
the top of a fifty-foot bluff directly overlooking Lake Michigan. 

A quarter mile north is Pigeon creek, a beautiful stream once 
famous among the Indian tribes of Michigan and Wisconsin as 
‘Musketece-bewensing,’ ‘creek of healing waters.’ A quarter mile 
south is Indian Hill, high and heavily forested, the resting place 
of many Indians, some of whose graves remain clearly distinguish¬ 
able at the present time. Between Indian Hill and Camp Keesus 
are the remains of an Indian settlement, abandoned just before 
the big timber was cut. The beach sand has almost entirely drifted 
over the place, but interesting relics in the shape of crockery, bones 
of animals, and domestic utensils are still to be secured. East of 


54] 


Thirteen Years of 


the camp lies some of Michigan’s best farming country, while west¬ 
ward, beyond the wide beach of clean sand at the foot of the bluff, 
stretches the expanse of Lake Michigan, always different and always 
beautiful, where every evening’s magnificent sunset glorifies the 
close of the camp day. 

“Further interest is added to the camp location by the old trails 
and logging roads through the thick woods, the abundant growth of 
wild berries in the open spaces, and the long range of forested hills 
and sand dunes along the lake shore. In short, the situation, and 
surroundings of Keesus provide for the best sort of camp life and 
scouting activities to an extent that can nowhere be surpassed.” 

This was the camp that was to be developed, in the ensuing 
years, solely by the willing labor of scouts and scoutmasters, into 
one of the finest and most completely equipped scout training 
places to be found anywhere. But this first year, while better out¬ 
fitted than that first camp on the Kankakee river, it was a rough 
and rugged outpost. Tall grass covered the bluff meadow where 
the tents were to be raised, and the ancient saloon, relic of the 
logging days, which was to be converted into a mess hall for the 
first two seasons, was not an inviting dining room as we first 
viewed it. 

A few of the boys who came to the camp that season were from 
hot-house homes, totally unused to any discomfort or hardship, and 
untrained, except for their brief career as tenderfeet, to look after 
themselves or to meet the situations of outdoor life. Of the forty- 
three boys who made up the first period group, thirty-two enjoyed 
the experience immensely; nine did not. 

These nine were the worst spoiled bunch of kids ever collected 
in one troop, and to make matters worse they were all put in the 
same tent at camp. The first day was rainy, and for these nine 
the situation was intolerable. Already in their brief association 
with the rest they had made themselves very unpopular, and when 





were pitched in a tree-enclosed meadow overlooking Lake Michigan 
Camp Keesus as it Appeared in 1917. 











Scout Adventure 


[ 55 


they came in a body and announced their desire to go home at once, 
the camp director, moved by considerations of expediency as well 
as the acute distress which they were suffering, listened to their 
pleas. 

The next morning they left, while the rest of the campers held 
an impromptu service of mourning, blew “Taps,” hung crepe on 
the front of the vacated tent, and indulged in other expressions of 
their joy at losing these ineffectives. Later, in the cleaning up 
of their erstwhile canvas home, partly finished letters were found 
which evidently were to have been mailed had not the request for 
departure been granted. They were all nearly alike, and one read 
in part thus: 

“The camp is rotten. We had to walk all the way from the 
railroad, nearly four miles, and there was no sidewalk. Our trunks 
and suitcases were hauled to camp in a dirty old farm wagon. The 
eats are fierce. They give you oatmeal for breakfast instead of 
shredded wheat. The dining room is a little one-story shack. There 
are no tennis nets or courts, and the grass is a foot high all around 
the place. Everybody has to work. I had to go for milk in the rain, 
and my feet are soaked! To go down to the beach you have to slide 
down a steep hill about 150 feet, on funny sand that squeaks when 
you step on it. Today they searched my trunk for candy and eats 
and made me give them up because they said they would attract 
ants! Remember pa said I should come right home if I didn’t 
like it.” 

Two days after our campers de luxe had departed, we had other 
letters to read, violent outbursts from enraged parents, one of whom 
delivered himself thus: 

“You cannot imagine our surprise this morning when our son 
Isador returned home and informed me of the lack of service he 
received at the camp. I will kindly ask of you to see that his trunk 
and other baggage are forwarded without delay. After taking away 



56] 


Thirteen Years op 


his candy and cakes you might at least be man enough to send his 
baggage, and I surely expect some explanation. I also expect to be 
reimbursed for the money paid you, and all damages, etc.” 

Explanation, as kindly as possible, was given to this irate 
father and the rest, and in the course of time the incident passed 
out of acute concern. 

A Scoutmaster who was very much liked by his troop, Mr. I. 
S. Sachs of Hyde Park Number 10, visited the camp that summer, 
and the second night of his stay some of his troop who were on 
guard duty planned to give him a little surprise party. During 
the camp-fire hour one of them made the end of a strong rope fast 
to a leg of Mr. Sachs’ cot, leading the rope off along the ground 
toward the flag-pole, the plot being that when Mr. Sachs should be 
asleep the guards would rouse two or three aids and heave their 
Scoutmaster playfully out of his tent onto the parade ground. 

By pure accident Mr. Sachs happened to drop a sock over the 
far side of his cot, and in reaching for it he discovered the rope. 
Less accidental was his prompt and resourceful action in untying 
the rope from the cot and making it fast to a tree which grew just 
behind the tent. Then he decided that this would be too good to 
miss and kept awake awaiting developments. 

In half an hour a small group gathered silently in front of the 
tent near the flag-pole. Stealthily one of them laid hold of the 
rope and passed it to the rest. They braced themselves, and gave 
a long strong pull. Nothing happened. 

Mr. Sachs was a heavy man, and the cot wasn’t on casters, so 
they figured that a little more beef was needed, and pulled again, 
more huskily. The result again was entirely negative. 

At this point, Mr. Sachs, apparently just aroused, shouted 
encouragement from where he lay on his cot. “Pull harder, fel¬ 
lows,” he urged, “you’ll make it yet!” 



Scout Adventure 


[ 57 


There was a ruffle of suppressed giggling, and one of the tug- 
of-war team went off to get reinforcements. A whole tent-full of 
scouts joined the issue, and lashed by the irony of their Scoutmaster 
who now proclaimed loudly his disappointment in their lack of 
brawn, they pulled mightily. Finally the rope broke, and the mo¬ 
ment being auspicious, the camp director appeared on the scene 
and dispersed the party. In the morning Mr. Sachs did not con¬ 
sider it necessary to make public his strategy, and the tug-of-war’s 
men believed they had strikingly demonstrated the strength of 
Gold Medal camp furniture. 

There was another cot in camp, however, that fared less for¬ 
tunately. Adrian Kraus, champion heavyweight senior patrol 
leader, crashed through his canvas support the very first night, 
and spent a half hour the next day mending it, without permanent 
success. 

In the Camp Journal under the date of July 5th, there is the 
brief notation—“Kraus broke through fourth cot.” On July 8th 
this further entry appeared: “Kraus breaks sixth cot and is forced 
to sleep on-ground until special six-legged bed can be built for him.” 

Kraus’ specialty was drill, and he was an uncommonly good 
drill instructor. Each night he had charge of the drill period just 
preceding Retreat, and though the rest of us got used to it, visitors 
were always struck with the remarkable spectacle which this item 
on the day’s program presented. 

Seated on a camp chair in the middle of the parade ground, 
with an orderly beside him holding up a red silk parasol if the 
sun was warm, Kraus directed the drill in majesty, with the aid of 
a huge megaphone. Discipline was perfect, results were satisfac¬ 
tory, but a military officer who saw the performance one evening 
was so scandalized at the unconventional manner of the instructor 
that he made a written protest to the Chicago Scout Headquarters. 

Later in the summer the drill periods were often interrupted 



58] 


Thirteen Years of 


by the sunset. One night the entire camp, including the cook, stood 
outside the mess hall watching the surpassingly beautiful display 
of colors and cloud formations while our suppers cooled forgotten 
a few yards away. I have never seen sunsets anywhere quite as 
wonderful as some of those across Lake Michigan at Camp Keesus. 

One of the delightful characters of that summer at Keesus was 
Henry Nor den, a natural humorist and an all-around good scout. 
Hank got the idea one day that the parade ground needed shade, 
and suggested that some young trees be set out in front of the 
semi-circle of tents so that campers of future seasons might enjoy 
their cooling protection. Naturally Henry was given the privilege 
of carrying out, with the assistance of his tent-mates, this interest¬ 
ing project, and they went forth to search for young trees of suitable 
size and transplantability. 

All the trees, however, seemed to be too large or too small, or 
too extensive as to roots, or otherwise unsuitable. Finally Hank 
announced that the scheme would have to be given up. 

"I’ll bet you that I can go out,” said Mr. Markvart, “and find 
in half an hour half a dozen trees that will be O. K.” 

Hank doubted this. 

“All right, you dig six holes where they should be, and I’ll get 
the trees,” said Markvart. 

The holes were dug, and Mark went out in search of the sap¬ 
lings, only to find that Hank was right; they were certainly hard 
to find. Not to be outdone, however, Mark went out again while 
all the fellows were in swimming, cut off fairly large boughs from 
six oak trees, and stuck them realistically in the holes, hastily fill¬ 
ing in the dirt and packing it close around them. 

“There you are,” said he to Hank when the latter returned from 
the beach—“how about it?” 

Hank was astonished, and said so. 



Scout Adventure 


[ 59 


“Now all you have to do is to keep those trees well watered 
until they get rooted in,” said Markvart. 

The duty of watering the bogus saplings was faithfully carried 
out by Hank and his patrol for three days, but the leaves began to 
turn brown. “More water!” said Markvart, and the bucket brigade 
doubled its activities in a heroic effort to save the drooping trees. 
That afternoon a scout carelessly ran into one of them coming out 
of his tent and of course knocked it over. Hank was just watering 
its neighbor, and saw the unmistakable truth. He took it in good 
part, however, as might have been expected, and rallied his patrol 
for a charge, with their five remaining buckets of water, upon Mr. 
Markvart. Thus was Nor den’s fame as a landscape gardener writ¬ 
ten prominently into the season’s annals. 

Camp-fire stories, then as always, were in great favor, and 
each evening some member of the staff told a tale of adventure or 
mystery or heroism. Ghost stories were few, for solid and worth¬ 
while inspirational stuff was in demand, and the camp-fire stories 
played a very important part in the constructive value of the camp 
experience. 

But there was one yarn that seemed justifiable as a thriller 
pure and simple. It was entitled, “The Phantom Shotgun.” I read 
it in a magazine some years earlier and it always went over strong. 
It occurred to me this season to strengthen the telling of the tale 
with a little realism, and so on the first night it was to be told I 
armed myself with a .38 revolver, loaded with blanks, and concealed 
it under my sweater as I went to the camp fire to do my stuff. 

The tale began and the plot moved rapidly toward the point 
where the mysterious lethal weapon first rent the quiet night with 
its deafening roar. Meanwhile I gently slipped the artillery into 
position, so that it pointed into the sand between my knees. At 
the proper instant I pressed the trigger. 



60 ] 


Thirteen Years op 


The effect was much more impressive than was expected. 
Campers leaped up and scurried away, crying out wildly, in all 
directions. It appeared that the blast had not only startled them 
out of their shoes, but had blown sand into their eyes with such 
smarting force that many of them thought for a moment they were 
really wounded. 

More exciting even than mystery stories with artillery accom¬ 
paniment were the violent wind storms which usually swept across 
the lake late in August. Then all hands would have to turn out to 
hold down the camp, and sometimes, in spite of every effort, a tent 
would sail off into the trees and its contents would scatter over 
several acres. 

After such gales, the best swims of the season were to be had, 
for the lake would be lashed into huge breakers, and surf diving 
was considered the greatest of all sports. 

The storms added to the large supply of driftwood strewn 
along the wide sand beach. Always camp fires were matters of 
great rivalry between tent patrols and competition was keen for 
the building of the most successful. Wigwam constructions were 
the favorites, made with wind-bleached logs ten or twelve feet 
high, and the shooting flames in these great piles made a picture 
long to be remembered. The biggest fire was a huge log cabin 
affair ten feet square with a wigwam on top. This was stupendous 
but much too hot, and more friendly fires were the usual custom. 

Each period of camp saw the development of some new im¬ 
provement, scout-built, to add to the permanent equipment, for 
every scout tried to leave something tangible as his contribution 
toward camp progress. There was Bob Miller’s sun dial, Mitchell’s 
rustic store, Fenner’s gateway, many substantial seats and benches, 
a long stairway down the bluff to the beach, and a bridge eighty 
feet long over a sand ravine twenty feet deep. But the crowning 



Scout Adventure 


[61 


achievement was the signal tower, 52 feet high, put together from 
pine trees and built so firmly that it withstood the winter gales 
for many seasons. 

After two years, a new mess hall had to be built, as the old 
saloon relic of the lumber days was too crowded. Scouts trans¬ 
planted, piece by piece, the old farm house which stood in the 
orchard on a distant corner of the property, and with the same 
lumber built a fine lodge that cost only the price of the nails. 
Much of the success of this enterprise was due to Robert J. Drake, 
assistant camp director, whose driving force and popularity made 
the really hard work fun. He had a unique “field meet” in the 
sport period one day; he organized competitive teams to see which 
side could haul the biggest pile of lumber, and the scouts never 
suspected they were really working. 

“Cap” Neeves, scoutmaster of Chicago troop 1, took charge of 
the carpentry of the new mess hall, and while the windows ex¬ 
pressed individuality in size and position according to the taste 
of the scouts responsible for them, the general effect was good and 
the achievement one to be proud of. 

All these construction enterprises were part of the day’s pro¬ 
gram at Camp Keesus, a program which was described by a visitor 
to the camp, in an article written for “American Youth,” somewhat 
as follows: 

“We came to a rustic gateway, and as we passed through it my 
eye caught a glimpse of a small erect figure on the top of a signal 
tower, outlined against the range of hills along the lake shore. It 
was the Scout guard watching us through field glasses. We went 
on up the thick wooded path up the hill. Suddenly a large open 
pavilion loomed before us out of the wilderness. Over the entrance 
hung an inscription in clear large letters: The Scout Law is the 
Law of This Gamp. 

“The Scout Law is the law of this camp. How much that means 



62 ] 


Thirteen Years of 


to one who understands! The Scout Law is the boys’ own law, the 
law of mutual helpfulness, loyalty, courtesy, good faith, obedience, 
courage, kindness, and cleanness. ‘A Scout is cheerful’ so says the 
Law. And certainly the small boy who descended from his tower 
to greet us, khaki-clad, tanned, bright-eyed, smiling, looked the part. 

“He informed us that it was morning instruction period and the 
other boys were all off somewhere working on Scout tests, which 
accounted for the apparently almost boyless camp, and he escorted 
us to headquarters. As we crossed the parade ground I peeped 
into a tent. Everything was in apple pie order, not a shoe or neck¬ 
tie visible. The wooden floor was bare and spotless. The cots were 
empty, the bedding being all hung on a rustic rack outside to air. 

“‘Been house cleaning?’ I asked. 

“ ‘No, Sir! It’s that way all the time. The Camp Master says 
it’s better not to let the camp get dirty than to have to keep clean¬ 
ing it up.’ 

“The headquarters tent was a little larger than the rest, over¬ 
looking the lake. Inside were rustic desks and chairs and the gen¬ 
eral effect was of a well ordered business office. 

“Nearby a bunch of Scouts were building a lean-to, thatched 
with boughs, for the Pioneer Merit Badge; incidently they were 
helping to clear the woods, by using only dead timber. A little 
farther off another group of boys were down on their hands and 
knees carefully laying fires for camp cooking preparation. 

“From the signal tower came the bugle Recall. The boys gath¬ 
ered up their implements and started back for their tents. Pres¬ 
ently swimming call sounded. The Camp Master was finishing 
some reports, but he pushed these aside quickly, explaining that 
the camp leaders took turns in taking charge of the swimming and 
it was his turn today. He picked up a whistle and we started down 
a long stairway to the beach. 



Scout Adventure 


[ 63 


“ ‘Some task to build all this/ I said. He smiled, and answered, 
‘We’ve never had any hired labor on the place. The boys built these 
stairs and the observation platform. Every building we have and 
every improvement is Scout made.’ 

“At the sound of the Camp Master’s whistle the boys fell into 
line. At the end of the line three Scouts stood beside a boat ready 
for launching and equipped with life lines and buoys. ‘Those are 
the life guards,’ he informed me. ‘They patrol the beach during 
every swimming period and get their own dip later. Every one of 
them has passed the Red Cross Life Saving Test.’ Another blast 
of the whistle, a dash, a splash, and that particular section of Lake 
Michigan was full of bobbing heads. A little further along the 
shore, another group of boys was going into the water with two 
Scoutmasters. These were the novices getting instruction. 

“Fifteen minutes later two long blasts on the whistle brought 
all the boys to the shore in a hurry and they ran up to get dressed 
and make their beds for tent inspection. 

“Promptly at twelve, Assembly sounded and the camp officers 
went the rounds of the tents, where scouts stood rigid at attention 
beside their cots. If their mothers could only have seen them! 
Talk about neat housekeeping! We didn’t see a thing that could be 
criticised, but the Camp Master pointed out uneven blanket rolls, 
frayed tent ropes, bits of string on the ground, and other offensive 
items. 

“ ‘Tent F wins the flag today/ he announced. A wild yell from 
the inhabitants of F and groans from the rest. 

“ ‘What’s the matter with E ?’ inquired a tent leader. 

“ ‘There were grains of sand on one of your cots/ was the 
prompt reply, and the tent leader was silenced. 

“Mess call interrupted. The boys rushed to the pump and 
basin rack to make their hands and faces as clean as their tents 
had been. 



Thirteen Years of 


64 ] 


“The mess hall was a large substantial building, with big 
screened porches and windows, another surprising example of the 
Scouts’ handiwork. The Scouts filed in and sat down at tables 
arranged in family style, a camp officer serving at the head of each. 
We ate amidst comparative silence, for talking would have to wait 
until the serious business of satisfying hunger was finished. The 
food was simple, but wonderfully appetizing and abundant. Plates 
were filled as often as they came back to the head of the table, and 
nobody seemed to worry about the supply giving out. 

“ ‘Must cost a good deal to keep these chaps going,’ I ventured. 

“ ‘Food cost thirty-five cents a day per scout last year; this 
year it’s running about forty cents.’ Evidently the Camp Master 
wasn’t worrying about the high cost of living. ‘Simple meals, 
wholesale buying, and economical cooking make it possible,’ he 
said, ‘and everybody is satisfied.’ 

“Let’s give a ‘Yea Chef,’ ” proposed the cheer leader when they 
were through. They gave it and the building shook. The chef 
stuck his head through the serving window and smiled. 

“The sport program this afternoon will be a flag-raiding game 
on Indian Hill,” a scoutmaster announced. “Right now, during 
the quiet period, you will have a chance to write your letters home.” 

“The boys were dismissed, one table at a time, to wash their 
own dishes at the row of tubs on the porch, where an inspector 
was stationed to see that every dish was turned in dry and clean. 
They made a contest out of it, each table trying to beat the time 
of the rest in getting its dishes all done. 

“ ‘In spite of these uplifting surroundings I suppose they mis¬ 
behave occasionally,’ I said. ‘What do you do then?’ 

“ ‘Did you see the sign about the Scout Law being the law of 
the camp?’ the Camp Master asked. ‘That sign means exactly what 
it says. In four years we’ve had only one case of intentional mis¬ 
conduct. That may surprise you, but if you stay a few days you 




The New Mess Hall, Built Entirely by the Scouts Themselves 

in 1917. 



The Camp Keesus Staff of 1915—left to right: Stuart Walsh 
E. J. Markvart, I. S. Sachs, and Harry Walsh, 
the Author’s Father. 






























Scout Adventure 


[ 65 


will realize why it’s true. No punishment or penalties of any kind 
are provided for, and we don’t need them. We treat each boy as 
a responsible and honorable citizen of this community, and they 
don’t disappoint us.’ 

“We hiked for two hours on the beach and returned to camp 
just in time to meet the boys coming back from their game, which 
had been exciting. There was another swim, a free period, and 
supper. After supper came the ceremony of Ketreat—simple, im¬ 
pressive, inspiring—when all the campers were drawn up at atten¬ 
tion as the bugle played ‘The Star Spangled Banner’ and the flag 
floated down from its staff. 

“At 9 :30 when the camp fire had burned low and stories were 
ended, short prayers were said and the boys climbed the stairs from 
the beach to their tents. Ten minutes later lights went out and the 
sweet notes of taps floated from the signal tower. The camp slept. 
Tomorrow there would be new activities, new lessons from nature’s 
book, new fun, and new inspiration. 

“And the Scout Law was the law of the camp.” 

Much of the fun of camp life anywhere comes from the interest¬ 
ing personalities who add their distinctive touch. There comes to 
mind Scoutmaster A. E. Colcord, seventy years old, who turned 
hand-springs and stood on his head on the bench in the middle of 
the parade ground every morning. And there was Alex Findley, 
who applied vaseline to keep his rebellious hair in place, at the 
suggestion of the staff, and then stayed in his tent for fear his hair 
would ignite from spontaneous combustion in the sun, having seen 
a jar of vaseline (and kerosene) burn in the camp hospital. 

Then there were those numerous scouts who found dark rings 
on their foreheads one night (simultaneously with an empty iodine 
bottle) and believed they were suffering from moonburn, and ap¬ 
plied Sloan’s liniment for relief. There was Alfred Ettleson, who 
developed a case of heart trouble, but whose father wrecked his 



66] 


Thirteen Years of Scout Adventure 


scheme for escaping labor, by writing a letter to the director deny¬ 
ing any such ailment. 

Alex Eben, one-time camp stenographer, ate beans with a 
shovel, on a dare, until restrained by the authorities, and his epi¬ 
taph became the first in the camp cemetery where thereafter many 
famous characters were laid in imaginary graves. It read, “Here 
lies Alexander Eben who died bravely from wounds sustained while 
eating a shovelful of beans.” 

Pat McCarthy and his wife, our good farmer neighbors, were 
a great asset to the camp, and took a personal interest in the scouts’ 
happiness. 

There were splendid fellows on the camp staff, too. George 
Rutter, scholar and camp historian, was famous for digging up 
Indian history where none had ever been. Wilson Rutherford, 
assistant camp director in 1917 cultivated a bean patch that netted, 
after a whole season of labor, only ten dollars worth of foodstuff 
to help win the war. Dwight Ramsay, now Scout Executive at 
Akron, Ohio, was largely responsible for the no-punishment system 
of camp discipline in 1917 which was used successfully during all 
subsequent seasons. Our much-beloved chef, Reginald Casseday, 
who served the camp five years, made berry shortcakes that were 
celebrated in the table talk of scouts’ homes throughout the winter. 

Such was Keesus, and its memory forms one of the brightest 
spots along the trail. 



Chapter Six 


THRILLS IN THE HAMMOND WOODS 

When the bean can burst—The episode of the 
five wire fences—Hot dogs and the burglar 
pup—The human lean-to—A hike de luxe. 






CHAPTER SIX 

Thrills In The Hammond Woods 


The officers of the 23rd troop believed that hikes were the most 
vital of scout experiences, and that with plenty of hikes included 
in the program the troop’s spirit, technique, and traditions would 
grow and flourish. 

Good hiking places within easy reach of Chicago were not then 
hard to find. There was the lake shore north of Evanston toward 
Winnetka, the forest preserves of Cook County to the west, south¬ 
west, and northwest, and the woods around Hammond, Indiana 
just beyond the end of the ten-cent fare limit from Chicago. 

These woods, by some chance, were not as much frequented 
by week-end pleasure seekers as other places, and to them we 
therefore made frequent pilgrimages. There was a considerable 
piece of fairly open small timber, possibly half a mile square, with 
a damp strip in the center pretty well grown up to bushes. The 
timber covered two holdings of property, and a wire fence crossed 
it and enclosed one end. The other half was not fenced, and no 
“Keep Out” signs were posted. The place was only a mile from a 
Hammond city car line. 

It was inevitable that in this oft-visited retreat there should 
have been enacted many incidents that became memorable. Here 
tenderfeet got their first introductions to outdoor scouting; here 


Thirteen Years of 


70 ] 


merit badge aspirants struggled with lean-tos, camp kitchens, 
bridges and derricks; here inter-patrol cooking contests and flag¬ 
raiding games were staged; here all sorts of outdoor sports adapted 
from the scout Handbook were tried out. We visited the place at 
all seasons except winter time, for then the bareness of the trees 
exposed our favorite camping spot to the view of distant houses, 
and spoiled its secluded charm. In winter, usually we stuck to the 
Lake Michigan shore, where icebergs and snow caves provided spe¬ 
cial attractions. 

It was in the Hammond woods that Myron Schutz nearly lost 
his life in a bean-can explosion; it was there that Harold Fisher 
got hopelessly lost fifty yards from the camp-fire one night; it was 
there that Hank Nor den pursued the canine burglar who had made 
away with ten yards of hot dogs. 

One of the most zealous tenderfeet that ever joined our ranks 
was Myron Schutz, anxious to participate in every troop activity; 
excitable of temperament but happy of spirit; enough of a “charac¬ 
ter” to attain lasting distinction. 

On one of his first hikes, before he had passed his second class 
cooking tests, Myron brought a can of pork and beans. 

Some day in the far distant future an able archaeologist, dig¬ 
ging in the earth’s accumulating crust, will uncover the crumbling 
remains of a pile of small cylinders of rusted tin, and examining 
the fragments carefully in his palm, will exclaim, “Ha; undoubt¬ 
edly this was at one time the site of a camp of Boy Scouts!” 

Toward the bringing of some such distant day Myron aimed 
to do his small part. As he read the printed directions on the 
label—for this was his first experience, remember—a friendly fel¬ 
low scout suggested that he might just set the can in the fire untij 
its contents were satisfactorily heated. Finding nothing in the 
directions which argued against such a stunt, Myron put his can 




Scout Adventure 


[ 71 


of beans in the middle of the small fire his patrol leader had taught 
him to build. 

The Scoutmaster, with an interested eye on all proceedings, 
saw the project started and warned Myron to be sure not to leave 
the can there many minutes. Myron assured him that the period of 
re-baking would be very brief. The Scoutmaster went elsewhere. 

In a few minutes Bob Miller, who had made the original sug¬ 
gestion, came around to see how things were going. To him Myron 
confided his growing anxiety. “How’ll I know when to take it 
out?” he asked. 

“Just watch the can and as soon as it turns green it’s ready 
to come out,” was Bob’s helpful information. 

Reports differ as to whether the can turned green, but how¬ 
ever that may have been, Myron had just decided to remove his din¬ 
ner from the flames and was bending over to do so when a loud 
explosion shattered the peace and beauty of the night. 

Rescue parties which quickly reached the scene of the blast 
spent quite a while picking enough beans out of Myron’s eyes to 
let him see the damage done to the surrounding scenery. Every 
tree trunk within ten yards was plastered with beans; Myron’s 
clothing was literally impregnated with them; where his camp-fire 
had been there was only a dusty spot on the ground. 

Myron’s shaken nerves were finally restored to something like 
normal, and Bob supplied him with another can of beans, which 
was placed in a can of water to heat; even so, Myron wouldn’t go 
near it. The event was recorded in a striking cartoon by Frank 
Fenner, the troop artist, and appeared on the front page of the 
troop’s weekly mimeographed newspaper, “The Password.” 

One of the favorite evening activities in the Hammond Woods 
was the so-called night trailing game. As then played, the plan of 
the game was this: A team comprising half the fellows in camp 
went out to some distant point; the other team, made up of the rest, 



72] 


Thirteen Years of 


posted guards at strategic points around the camp-fire in a circle 
fifty yards in radius. Without being seen and identified, the out¬ 
side party tried to get within the circle of guards and reach the 
fireside. 



“A Loud Explosion Shattered the Surrounding Silence.” 


It was on one of these enterprises that Harold Fisher, then a 
tenderfoot, made his name and fame amongst the troop’s immortals. 
He had been one of a party to go out; the game had progressed as 
usual; and the whistle had been blown indicating that it was over 
and that everyone should reassemble. As the talk subsided while 
the fellows found comfortable spots on which to lie and listen to 
the evening story, someone asked, “Where’s Fisher?” 

















Scout Adventure 


[ 73 


Fisher wasn’t there. Silencing the bunch, we called his name 
loudly in the darkness. Presently a faint reply sounded. 

“Help! Help! I’m lost!” Fisher’s voice came faintly out of 
the distance. 

“Come on in!” we shouted back. 

“I can’t! I’m lost! Help!” 

How anybody could be lost within sight of the camp-fire was 
a mystery, but a relief party was sent out and presently returned 
with Fisher safe and sound. Just how or why he was lost he didn’t 
clearly explain, but he said he became Confused because when he 
went out from the camp he crossed only one wire fence, and coming 
back he crossed five! 

The next morning we finally convinced him that there was only 
one fence anywhere in the vicinity. 

Those evenings in the woods, and those nights under the stars 
with timid tenderfeet—how thrilling they still seem in recollection, 
even since the experiencing of much larger adventures! It didn’t 
matter that the street lights of Hammond shone only a few hundred 
yards away; it didn’t matter that a ten-minute walk would bring 
us to a city car line; it didn’t matter that an hour’s ride would 
bring us into the heart of a great metropolis—when night fell in the 
Hammond woods it invested our little camp with a mantle of ro¬ 
mance as enveloping as if we had been in a remote wilderness. 
Time will never erase the impressions of those occasions when, 
from a small central camp-fire that was appointed for the gathering 
place of the whole group in the last hour before Taps, the Scout¬ 
master looked about on a semi-circle of tiny supper fires bright 
against the black background of trees and bushes, each blaze light¬ 
ing the faces of two eager scouts intent on the outcome of more or 
less savory culinary experiment; each fire marking the spot at 
which two weary scouts would crawl fearfully into their blankets 
when the final bugle sounded. 



Thirteen Years of 


74 ] 


That scheme of separated cooking fires and sleeping places 
worked fine with tenderfeet. Huddled together in a large group 
in tents or about a central fire they would have been noisy for 
hours, unmindful of the spell of the surrounding night; but tucked 
away in pairs, the ten yards that separated them from their near¬ 
est neighbors seemed in the darkness to be ten miles, and their first 
night out was an experience enjoyed in silence if not always in rest¬ 
ful unconsciousness. 

Henry Nor den, hero of the landscape gardening campaign at 
Camp Keesus, was a fancier of dogs. Not live ones, but the so- 
called hot variety. No one else could ever draw from a pack such 
large, shapely, brilliant-red wienies as Hank proudly exhibited. 
Where he got them was kept secret; certainly they were unique. 
On one fateful day Hank had fished several fathoms of these deli¬ 
cacies from his pack and had laid them on a paper on the ground 
while he went in search of firewood. A strange dog strayed into 
camp, looking for anything of interest, and his attention was at¬ 
tracted, quite naturally, by Hank’s menagerie. The dog was hun¬ 
gry, and laid hold of a luscious link, but finding it apparently a 
part of an extensive system, he paused to investigate. Meanwhile 
Hank returned, spied the burglar, dropped his wood, and ran 
towards his treasure, announcing violently to the intruding dog 
that in just another moment he was going to kick it lustily in the 
slats. 

No dog likes to be kicked in the slats; so, as any other dog 
would have done, he sank his teeth firmly in a convenient sausage 
and started off at top speed. Instantly the entire string of jointed 
nourishment leaped in forced pursuit. It was a pretty race. Madly 
the dog tore through the woods, his red train raising a little cloud 
of dust; hot in pursuit dashed Hank. All of us sided with the dog, 
but his load was too much for him, for he was a small dog, and he 
finally bit his mouth-piece in two and left the rest to Hank, so 



Scout Adventure 


[75 


badly damaged in transit, however, that several changes of water 
were necessary to restore them to their original brilliance. 

We had no tents on those Hammond woods hikes, except one 
pup tent owned by Adrian Kraus, which was considered quite a 
luxury; yet in all our outings we had only two or three wet nights. 
This w T as remarkable luck; I do not see how we fared so well. 

One of the wet nights happened before Adrian got his tent; in 
fact, it was the reason why he got his tent. 

One of the fellows had been building a lean-to, which looked 
a bit sketchy and ineffective. In this region there was really noth¬ 
ing with which to thatch a lean-to substantially, such as large slabs 
of bark or evergreen branches, so the lean-tos were useless in a rain 
unless draped with a poncho or sheet of canvas. 

The particular lean-to in question had a flat roof, supported 
by four corner poles, and onto this flat framework the proprietor 
was tying a poncho. 

“That’s a nice sunshade,” the Scoutmaster suggested, “but what 
good will it do when it rains?” 

“Oh, this rubber poncho hasn’t any hole in it—(most ponchos, 
of course, have a head-hole in the center)—and I figure that unless 
it rains hard it will be all right.” 

“Well, but what are you going to use for a side wall?” 

“Oh, Kraus is going to sleep here beside me tonight, and I 
figure on using him for a side wall!” 

Night came, clouds gathered, and eventually rain fell gener¬ 
ously. 

From the shelter of my own small tent, into which about half 
a dozen refugees had crowded at the start of the downpour, I 
called out an inquiry to the inmates of the lean-to. 

“Are you still dry?” 

“Yes, we’re fine, and Kraus is still asleep,” came the encour¬ 
aging answer from the lean-to architect. 




76 ] 


Thirteen Years of Scout Adventure 


He spoke just in time. A second later there was a brief tear¬ 
ing sound, a prolonged dripping splash, and a wail of distress from 
Kraus, suddenly very much awake. 

The string securing one corner of the poncho had parted under 
the weight of several gallons of water which had collected on it, and 
the entire reservoir had flooded Kraus’ upturned face. 

Therefore, as already stated, the pup tent. 

Once or twice each year we felt the call of places more distant 
than the Hammond woods and the other semi-civilized environs of 
Chicago. One objective of hikes farther afield was Starved Rock 
State Park in the Illinois Valley. The cliffs and canyons of this 
beauty spot, rich in Indian history, had a special appeal for scouts. 

It was considered impractical for the boys who went on these 
trips to cover a great deal of territory carrying both bedding and 
grub, so we arranged for hotel accommodations, one night at Joliet 
and one night at Ottawa enroute, at a cost of seventy-five cents 
each night per boy. The usual plan was to hike from Blue Island 
to Joliet the first day, take an early special car to Starved Rock, 
hike north through the park the second day to Ottawa, and on 
the third day take a car to Joliet and hike north along the indus¬ 
trial Des Plaines valley, visiting the State penitentiary, the steel 
mills, coke ovens, hydraulic power plant and the drainage canal 
controlling works at Lockport, where we would take the car for 
Chicago. 

The Starved Rock trip came to be a favorite annual feature, 
in which many other Chicago troops eventually joined. 



Chapter Seven 


THE CRUISES OF THE ILL-FATED 

SS. MAY 

A motor boat that was worth sixty dollars— 
The voyage on the Chicago drainage canal— 
Deep-sea ambitions—The phantom ships— 
The story of Camp Calamity—A day of 
heavy losses. 












I 







CHAPTER SEVEN 


The Cruises Op The Ill-Fated SS. “May” 


One of the troop enterprises of 1915 most productive of remark¬ 
able events was the purchase of a motor boat. Through the sale 
of the Saturday Evening Post on the “Troop Finance Plan” and 
other activities, we accumulated sixty-five dollars, and set out to 
get hold of the most boats that this amount of money would buy. 

It wouldn’t buy much, but it did separate a man on the north 
branch of the Chicago river near Riverview Park from an eighteen- 
foot one-lunged relic that looked as if it had possibilities. 

It had. 

It answered to the name of “May,” and of course we gave a 
good deal of thought to the selection of a more scout-like and suit¬ 
able title. But as time went on we decided that the name was big 
enough for the boat, and merely changed the tense and called it 
“Might!” 

“Bus” Evans, mechanically inclined, became the chief engineer, 
with lots of help from almost everybody in the troop, and we soon 
became a frequent menace to navigation on the Chicago river. Up 
and down this crowded stream we chugged and coasted, until “Bus” 
had tamed the engine so that it would do his bidding at least fifty 
per cent of the time. Then we planned a regular voyage. 

Naturally enough we thought of Lockport, thirty-five miles 


Thirteen Years of 


80 ] 


down the drainage canal, as a suitable objective, because Henry 
Peck and other ex-scouts of the Lockport troop still lived there and 
we could give them a call. 

So on June 22d ten picked mariners shoved out from the Wells 
Street bridge and set the course for the south branch of the river, 
which is Chicago’s great fresh-air sewer. Thirty-five miles of travel 
on this fragrant stream would have turned the stomachs of any but 
river tug boatmen and hardy Boy Scouts; in the joy of traveling 
we never gave the atmosphere a thought. 

The ten of us were pretty crowded in the boat, so our activities 
were necessarily confined to turning our heads to take in the pass¬ 
ing scenery, which passed at the dizzy rate of twelve miles an hour. 
Nine of these hourly miles passed because of the efforts of our mo¬ 
tor; the remaining three passed because of the current in the canal. 
It occurred to us that the return voyage wouldn’t be so breath¬ 
taking. 

We managed to find elbow room for eating our suppers as the 
engine coughed with surprising regularity, and before dark we saw 
the Ninth Street bridge at Lockport looming close ahead of us. 
It was under this bridge that we were due to make a landing, but 
when the word was given to “Bus” to shut off the motor it declined 
to be shut off. Someone’s foot had jammed the switch so that it 
wouldn’t open, and we sailed enthusiastically under the bridge 
toward the power dam two miles below. The canal wasn’t quite 
wide enough to turn in without backing, and we passed a few anx¬ 
ious moments until “Bus” cut one of the wires. 

Heading about we made a safe landing, and spent the night in 
Henry Peck’s front yard, where startled neighbors discovered us 
in the morning. Mrs. Peck hospitably helped out with our break¬ 
fast, and after seeing the sights of the town we re-embarked for the 
slow voyage back to Chicago. 



Scout Adventure 


[81 


It took “Bus” and his staff only thirty minutes to get the engine 
started, while the rest of us stood about and explained to Peck 
how beautifully it usually behaved, and all went well until we met 
a tug foaming down the canal and making huge waves in its wake, 
over which we hurdled in considerable anxiety for the next three 
miles. The engine was loyal until we reached the bridge at Argo, 
some distance outside Chicago, and there it faltered. 

Altogether we passed under that bridge seven times, going 
north under power and coasting back with the current. We felt 
cheered to be holding our own so well, and finally the engine got 
back on the job steadily and we struggled on. Long after nightfall 
we reached our dock, feeling that our seafaring venture had been 
pretty much of a success. 

If we could onlv have a faster boat, we believed we should be 
really well fixed. 

In a few weeks we found another “May,” about the same size 
but with a better power plant, and on June twentieth we traded 
May First for May Second, giving ten dollars to boot. In our new 
craft we made several short trips on the river and in the harbor, 
until Camp Keesus called us across the lake. 

We planned to have our cruiser with us. 

It was arranged that Bob Miller should have charge of the 
navy until some responsible person could be found to make the 
voyage to camp with him. To take such a small craft as the “May” 
directly across the lake—eighty miles to Grand Haven—would 
have been too hazardous, so the plan was to sail around the south 
end of the lake, following the shore and putting in each night at 
a convenient harbor. Thus it was expected that the first day or 
“leg” of the voyage would be from Chicago to Michigan City, Ind., 
the second from there to South Haven, Mich., and the third to 
Camp Keesus. 



82 ] 


Thirteen Years of 


Camp had been running a week when word came from Bob 
that the navy was getting no recruits. 

“I can’t find anyone who will go to Michigan with me,” he 
wrote, “so I guess you had better send Mr. Markvart or somebody 
else hack from camp to go. 

“I was scared to death yesterday when I went down to light 
the lights on the boat. It was not at its usual moorings by the 
Clark street bridge. After considerable looking I found it tucked 
away back of the bridge on the opposite side of the river. Next 
time it might get further away. 

“Charlie Cole wants to come over with me, but I told him you 
wanted some ‘responsible’ person. He said he was responsible, 
because he knew all about motorcycles!” 

Shortly after this letter and a little more correspondence, my 
father volunteered for the cruise, and it was arranged that he, with 
Ray Overholtz and Bob, should start as soon as their camping out¬ 
fit, spare engine parts, etc., could be gotten together. 

According to this plan, word came one day at camp that the 
fleet would sail, weather favoring, on the morrow, so in three days 
we began to scan anxiously the lake in front of our camp for signs 
of its arrival. Few motor boats passed the camp, and those few, on 
the first day of our watching, were all unlike the “May”; but that 
night, shortly after Taps, as the members of the staff were prepar¬ 
ing to turn in, a motor-boat engine chugged faintly to the south¬ 
ward. It sounded exactly like the “May,” so we routed out an 
extra crew of scouts, launched both the camp rowboats, and rowed 
out more than a mile, fearing that in the darkness our ship would 
pass by the camp unless we could intercept it. 

Soon the port and starboard lights of the motor boat came 
into view ,and we hailed it. Paying us no attention whatever, the 
craft came by, showing up in the darkness as big as an ocean liner 
and proving to be a large fishing boat bearing no resemblance to 



Scout Adventure 


[83 


the “May.” We rowed ashore. All next day we kept a lookout, 
without success. That night we chased two more suspects and 
lost considerable more sleep. The next day our armada was still 
distressingly absent, and still another troubled night followed. 
Then the mail carrier brought us a pencil addressed letter with an 
Indiana postmark. It proved to be from my father, who wrote as 
follows: 

“No Man’s Land, Indiana, 35 miles from Chicago, Tuesday. 

“My Dear Son: 

“We landed here last Thursday on account of too much 
sea for the boat. Are now waiting for the breakers to subside. 

No telling when we can get out as the weather here is favorable 
for navigation only about one day in four. 

“Meanwhile we are safe and well, within walking distance 
of supplies, and have taken possession of a deserted fisherman’s 
shanty that has a range in it but no floor. 

“This whole coast is nothing but a desert waste of sand— 
sand hills and sand valleys, but we are comfortably situated, for 
castaways. 

“Every day so far the waves have washed the after end of 
the boat full of sand, and every day the boys have taken the engine 
out, cleaned the sand out of it, and replaced it in case the next 
morning should bring favorable weather. One day we made a start, 
but got only a few miles when the waves came through the exhaust 
pipe and killed the engine, so were forced to turn back. We are 
having a great experience.” 

At a conference of the Admiralty it was decided that I had 
better go to “No Man’s Land” and survey our beached navy to see 
what the prospects might be of continuing its cruise to the base of 
summer operations. 

So that night I was a passenger on the “Alabama,” and the 
next morning took a train for Porter, Ind., the station nearest the 
lake shore in the vicinity of the supposed location of our expedition. 



Thirteen Years of 


84 ] 


Hiking out to the beach from the station, I turned eastward 
and walked toward Michigan City, which I believed was the proper 
direction. I had traveled about three miles and was beginning to 
doubt the correctness of my course when I saw a floor grating on 
the beach of the peculiar green color that characterized these fit¬ 
tings on the “May.” 

A little further on I came across a piece of a rudder, with the 
tiller attached which was certainly the same tiller which I had 
notched and repainted with my own hand. Near it lay one of our 
life preservers. The “May” itself was nowhere in sight. 

“Something must have happened to the May,” I thought to 
myself. This was a brilliant deduction, to say the least, but I 
couldn’t figure out the puzzle for another mile, when I saw in the 
distance a faint smudge coming out of the stove-pipe chimney of a 
dug-out shanty. Beside the shanty, at least thirty yards from the 
water’s edge, was the skeleton of a motor-boat, and on the roof of 
the shanty there was unmistakably the form of Bob Miller. 

“Welcome,” said Bob, to “Camp Calamity!” 

Briefly the story of the castaways was this: 

The day after writing the letter telling of their whereabouts, 
a terrific storm had come up, and one mighty wave had tossed the 
“May,” which was lying half full of sand and water on the beach, 
clear up to its present position. They had taken the engine out 
previously, to take it apart and cleanse it of the all-pervading sand, 
and it now reposed on the roof of this shanty, where Bob was wip¬ 
ing its various parts. The wreck certainly looked like a case for 
complete abandonment to the underwriters or Lloyd’s, but a beach¬ 
comber who said he had once been a ship’s carpenter and who had 
a shanty nearby, insisted that he could put the “May” all together 
again if we would give him time to assemble its scattered parts. 
We decided to let him try it. The engine was removed to a more 



Scout Adventure 


[ 85 


secure storage place a mile distant, and “Camp Calamity” was 
evacuated. 

A week later, at Camp Keesus, we received this letter: 

Porter, Ind., July 13, 1915 

“Dear Sir: 

“I have inspected your boat and found it in bad shape. All the 
planking that is not gone is loose, and all the nails will have to be 
drawn out and replaced with new. 

“The cheapest I can fix it will be twenty dollars to fix it up 
as it should be done. If you want it done let me know, as it will 
have to be done outside in dry weather and to haul it in some dry 
place to have it done would cost you more. 

“Respectfully yours, WILLIAM COOK.” 

To which this reply was made: 

“Dear Mr. Cook: 

“After careful consideration we have decided that we want the 
boat fixed up as outlined in your letter, and you may go ahead with 
it at your convenience. We will plan to come out and get it about 
September first. 

“We trust that we will have a seaworthy boat when you finish 
the job.” 

The summer passed without further thought of our merchant 
marine, but Avhen school re-opened one of the first matters of con¬ 
cern at a September troop meeting was the organizing of a proper 
expedition to bring the “May” back to her home port. 

Bob Miller, Henry Thomson, Bill Yesey, Roy Hansen, and the 
Scoutmaster made up the party which took the Illinois Central 
train the next morning—Saturday, September 18—with a program 
that called for the installing of the engine and the launching of the 
“May” in the afternoon, making Gary harbor that night, and con¬ 
tinuing on to Chicago the next morning. 




86 ] 


Thirteen Years of 


It worked on schedule up to the installing of the engine, which 
proved to be a more complicated job than we expected. Bob was 
acting this time as chief engineer, and it wasn’t until after dark 
Saturday night that he had it all together. Meanwhile the rest of 
us made camp and inspected carefully the beachcomber’s job. It 
seemed to be a success. As far as we could see, the “May” had been 
restored completely to her original seaworthiness and beauty. 

The next morning we laid rollers from the boat to the water’s 
edge, but delayed the launching on account of high waves which 
we hoped would subside as the day wore on. 

At noon we judged that the lake was calm enough for a safe 
launching, so we took off our clothes, laid hold of the May, and 
urged her strenuously toward her native element. It was slow, 
hard work. A long pole used as a pry aided us, and finally her 
forefoot was wet with the lapping waves. At last we got her 
afloat, and waded out with her far enough so she wouldn’t pound 
her bottom on the sand, while Bill Vesey went back and ferried 
out our clothes and other duffle on his head. We had lacked the 
intelligence to put them in the boat in the first place. 

When everything was aboard, Bob jumped in, heaved at the 
fly wheel, and to our surprise and joy the engine started off with 
pep and promptness that presaged a fast passage. We headed 
straight for Chicago, for we had barely time to make it before night, 
and there were no white-caps. We dressed and sat down to enjoy 
the voyage. 

We should have known that such luck was too good to be gen¬ 
uine. A smell of hot paint wafted to our nostrils, and Bob glanced 
anxiously at the engine. Feeling of the cylinder jacket, he blis¬ 
tered his fingers. A moment later he shut it off. Obviously the 
water pump was not performing its cooling functions properly. 
Bob took the pump apart and examined it; nothing seemed to be 




Scout Adventure 


[87 


wrong. He primed it, oiled it, and tried it again. Intense heat 
immediately resulted, and Bob opened the switch again. 

This time when we stopped Henry Thomson and I looked at 
each other with anxiety in our faces that wasn’t all caused by the 
striking pump. The “May” was rolling gently in the swells, and 
the distant sand dunes seemed to rise and fall over our gunwale. 

In a letter to a friend, written shortly after the incident, I 
described the events that followed thus: 

“I have sat more than once on the shore of Lake Michigan, 
watching the waves roll in and remarking on the inspiration and 
beauty of it all. And I believe I have several times recited some¬ 
thing like this: 

“ ‘The sea, the sea, the open sea, 

The blue, the fresh, the ever free, 

I never was on the dull, tame shore 

But I loved the great sea more and more!” 

“Such are my sentiments no longer. On the Sunday afternoon 
aforementioned the ‘open sea’ lost, for me, many of its charms.” 

Waiting patiently for a diagnosis of the pump’s ailment, we 
suddenly became aware that all was not well. In fact, only a few 
minutes passed before none of us was well. We looked longingly at 
the shore. We wished that the boat would hold still for just a few 
moments so that we could get our digestive organs adjusted. We 
had never been seasick; both of us had been on Lake Michigan at 
its wildest without the slightest discomfort, but there was certainly 
something going wrong with our departments of the interior now. 

Henry said, “Somehing we cooked for dinner didn’t agree 
with me.” 

“Yes,” I said, “I wonder what it was.” 

“What’s the matter with you—I feel fine,” said Bob. 



88] 


Thirteen Years op 


We told him that he was busy with the engine and therefore 
didn’t notice the motion. We urged him to effect a speedy cure of 
the ailing pump. 

“I can’t find anything wrong with the blame thing, except that 
it won’t pump any water,” said Bob. “We’ll just have to run a few 
minutes at a time and then let ’er cool off; we’d better head for 



“Wfe Rolled on the Restless Swells.” 


Gary, because it’s too rough to land on the beach where the swells 
are breaking now. Besides, we’ve had enough of beach landings.” 

“Yes, I know,” I told him. “But I wish the old raft would hold 
still a few minutes. I don’t like the way those sand hills bob up and 
down over there.” 

Suddenly Henry, who had been keeping very quiet, said to Bill 
Yesey, “Move over to your side of the boat, quick!” 







Scout Adventure 


[ 89 


“Why?” Bill wanted to know. 

“To balance!”—and without further explanation Henry leaned 
far out over the gunwale. 

Within the next ten minutes all of us except Bob followed suit. 
Bob laughed at us with a coarse, heartless, impolite laugh. I had 
never noticed before what an unpleasant laugh Bob had. 

“Balance the boat!” became, so to speak, the slogan of the 
enterprise. Between fitful spurts of speed lasting five or ten min¬ 
utes, we rolled on the restless swells and looked wistfully at the 
shore. We lost our dinners, our breakfasts—indeed it seemed that 
during the ensuing hours our entire bill of fare for the last week 
passed through our alimentary canals in reverse order. 

Darkness fell at length, and the lighthouse on the Gary break¬ 
water began winking at us deliriously. The moon didn’t come up, 
though everything else did. At midnight, in a final spasm of ac¬ 
tivity, our motor kicked us into Gary channel, and we tied up to 
the breakwater and staggered ashore. We were faint and weak 
from lack of food and from loss of it, but we didn’t mind that. 
Everything else was subordinate to the joy of feeling solid ground 
underfoot. How firm and unyielding it seemed! We rolled in our 
blankets and slept until long after daylight. 

This was Monday morning, and absence from school was a 
serious matter to all but one of our party, so we hastily made the 
“May” as secure as possible and got a train for Chicago, planning 
to return at the end of the week for another session with the erring 
pump. 

The next Saturday Bob and I alone came out to Gary to enact 
another episode with the ill-fated “May,” and this time, in addition 
to the difficulty with the pump, our ship developed a notion of run¬ 
ning backward instead of forward, which was quite annoying. We 



90 ] 


Thirteen Years of 


nearly rammed a huge ore freighter that was coming into the har¬ 
bor; probably her captain doesn’t know to this day how narrowly 
we missed her. 

But fortune favored us, for after a hurried supper on board 
Bob had the happy inspiration of investigating the strainer on the 
outside of the hull which was attached to the water pump intake. 
Our beachcombing shipbuilder had nailed a piece of new planking 
squarely over it! 

It was too late to do anything that night, but we figured that 
in the morning we might disconnect the intake pipe and attach a 
hose to it leading overside. Someone had stolen all but two of the 
blankets which we had left in the boat’s lockers. In these we rolled 
up as best we could, removing our shirts and shoes and laying them 
on the beach beside us. 

We had been asleep some time when we were awakened by a 
sand storm which blew sand over all our clothes, into our eyes, 
ears, noses, and other convenient apertures. 

Toward morning the wind shifted to the north, bringing a vio¬ 
lent drop in temperature. Then a rain set in—a hard, driving 
rain which blew in under our blankets, soaked through them, ran 
under the edges, and made us thoroughly miserable. As cheerfully 
as possible we endured the rest of the night. There was no shelter 
available; the city of Gary and the steel mills were across the 
channel. 

In the first faint light we reached for our shirts and shoes 
intending to vacate our camp site as early as possible. The shirts 
were so sodden with wet sand that we couldn’t put them on, but 
our shoes were much worse; well-packed sand almost filled them. 
Several hundred yards down the beach we saw an apparently vacant 
cottage, and for this shelter we decided to run, With the idea of 



Scout Adventure 


[91 


finding there a defense against the wind at least, so that we could 
dig out our shoes and shake out our shirts and prepare for re-enter¬ 
ing civilization. There was no thought whatever of a sea voyage 
to Chicago. Our breakfast was ruined by sand and water, and so 
w r e had little to carry as we made a dash for the empty cottage. 
When we reached it we found that it w r as empty all right enough; 
likewise minus all doors and windows. The wind tore through it 
bitterly, and the only shelter was afforded by a portion of the front 
wall behind which we huddled while we went at our shoes with 
sticks and slowly excavated them. More than an hour of steady 
effort w r as required to enable us to put them on, and then, wet, cold, 
hungry, baffled completely in our enterprise, we lit out for the car 
line and home. 

But we knew what was the matter with the “May’s” pump, 
and that thought cheered us until we sat down, bathed and dressed, 
to a wonderful chicken dinner in the comfort and luxury of home. 

Another week-end trip might have enabled us to bring the 
“May” triumphantly to her dock at the Wells street bridge, but 
when we went to Gary again we found that a passing steamer had 
swamped her and caused her to sink at her moorings. A friendly 
mill worker had rescued her and pumped her out, but had failed 
to tie her securely, and she had come adrift and floated out toward 
the lake. The lighthouse keeper had seen her, bottom up, and had 
towed her into the channel, where she had been lifted out on a raft. 
But her adventures had wrecked her beyond usefulness, and we 
decided to salvage the engine and close the log of the “May” for¬ 
ever. As these lines are written, the “May’s” engine still rests 
peacefully in the basement of Henry Thomson’s Chicago home. 

Several years later, when the war came, Henry joined the 
Navy—not because it was his original choice, but because he was 
too light to get into anything on shore—and in the course of time 



92 ] 


Thirteen Years of Scout Adventure 


he developed a sturdy pair of sea legs and a storm-proof sea diges¬ 
tion. x4fter the war he went on in the merchant marine to earn 
his way through college, doing Scouting in five or six languages 
meanwhile. Now he’s an officer on the Admiral liner Ruth Alex¬ 
ander, running out of Seattle. If any of us had predicted such a 
career for him that day on the “May” he would certainly have 
thought us to be insane as well as seasick. 



Chapter Eight 


THE POLAR EXPEDITION OF 1917 

High waves and low spirits—Fast in the ice 
pack—The panic of Muskegon lake—Fool¬ 
ing the famished sea-gulls—A two-mile hike 
that lasted five days. 










CHAPTER EIGHT 


The Polar Expedition Op 1917 


Fresh avenues of adventure beckoned at Christmas-time, 1914, 
and we had the inspiration to go over for a mid-winter glimpse of 
the new site of Camp Keesus. Thus we launched a most unusual 
expedition. 

To speak of it as a hike, which it was intended mainly to be, 
is somewhat misleading, for though it lasted the greater part of a 
week the total distance walked was less than two miles. Further¬ 
more, although we each paid only one fare for an over-night trip 
to Grand Haven, we were at sea four days and four nights. 

The Goodrich Transit Company operated an all-winter service 
out of Chicago for Grand Haven and Muskegon on the east shore, 
maintained by the large steamer Alabama, which was built espe¬ 
cially for battling with winter ice and storms. 

On a cold and windy night in the holiday vacation week the 
Scoutmaster and seven scouts skidded across the slippery gang¬ 
plank with heavy packs and learned that because of unusually 
heavy ice off the Chicago harbor the Alabama might not sail until 
morning. We didn’t see how she could sail at all, for the ice was 
already solid all around her as she lay at the dock. 

As we went to our staterooms there were varied conjectures 
as to what might befall us; we all felt that this was going to be a 


96 ] 


Thirteen Years of 


trip out of the ordinary. The boys in the party were Henry Thom¬ 
son, Bill Edens, A1 Stern, Jack Pickells, Bob Miller, Edgar Lunde, 
and Bob Paulson, all veterans of less ambitious enterprises. We 
fell asleep to the soothing melody of freight trucks and steam 
winches on the deck below us as the heavy winter cargo was stowed 
away in the fore holds. 

Jack, who had just come from Pittsburg, where the largest 
body of water at hand is the Ohio river, was especially thrilled at 
the size of the steamer and the prospect of a trip on so vast a brine¬ 
less deep as Lake Michigan. “I hope there will be great big waves 
in the morning,” he said, and his eager wish was shared by all 
except Thomson and I, who recalled that fateful day on the “May,” 
and said nothing. 

At daylight the Alabama kicked herself out of the Chicago 
river and headed into the lake, grinding her way through the heavy 
ice that extended ten miles from the Chicago shore. We were 
awakened by the effect of the first high wave she hit outside the 
breakwater. We got up and commenced to dress. Jack was over¬ 
joyed; the Alabama was rolling and pitching quite satisfactorily. 

While we had a supply of grub with us, we had planned to eat 
breakfast, which would ordinarily have been just before we landed 
at Grand Haven, in the steamer’s dining room; now, with the pros¬ 
pect of a whole day on the lake, we decided to follow the original 
plan and save our grub until we should get ashore. 

So we gathered around a dizzily rocking table in the dining 
saloon and ordered ham and eggs and rolls from a very polite col¬ 
ored man who spread his feet well apart to steady himself as he 
took our orders. While we waited, the thought came to me that 
I wasn’t very hungry, though I should have been. Henry, across 
the table, seemed to be disturbed in mind about something more 
than the effort to keep from falling out of his chair when the ship 



Scout Adventure 


[97 


rolled. Suddenly he got up, smiled queerly, and said he’d be right 
back. 

The ham and eggs came; two of the party ate. The rest sat 
in puzzled inactivity or went out “to see where Henry had gone.” 
I lingered only to drink half a cup of coffee—during the hours that 
followed I lost fully six cups. Bob Miller and Lunde, apparently 
immune stayed and ate their breakfast; they went further and ate 
the unused breakfasts of nearly all the rest of us. We took a vio¬ 
lent dislike to them; we hadn’t realized before what ill-mannered 
and piggish fellows they really were. 

In the course of the morning, which passed quite unpleasantly, 
we ran across Jack, sitting in a heap on one of the stairways, as 
if he’d just been thrown off a wagon, and we inquired if the waves 
were high enough to suit him. Turning a pale face toward us he 
asked in a weak voice, “Can you see land yet?” 

The “Alabama” was a wild steed. She bucked and pitched her 
way across the lake like a double-join ted folding canoe, while heav¬ 
ing waves dashed spray in the faces of six heaving explorers who 
wondered where they had ever gotten the insane notion of starting 
on such a fool’s expedition. Nobody noticed the noon mess-hour 
except Bob and Lunde, who had worked up tremendous appetites 
laughing at the rest of us. 

About two o’clock one of our three fellow-passengers who had 
chanced the perils of a winter passage, moved by the effect of three 
bottles of a private stock of refreshment, tried to cheer us up with 
song. He admitted right at the start that he had lost his singing 
voice in an attack of measles three years previous. We all felt 
regretful that the measles hadn’t proved fatal. 

Three o’clock brought the welcome sight of an ice field, and 
fifteen minutes later we had slowed down to bare steerageway. 
Half an hour later we stuck fast, and the captain appeared on the 
bridge to superintend future progress. 



98 ] 


Thirteen Years of 


After bucking the ice windrows for about an hour and making 
little progress, we rested quietly. Ice windrows, by the way, are 
like snowdrifts—long piles of ice cakes that have been jammed 
together and tossed up into a mass which is something like twelve 
feet thick in places. The task of breaking up these masses and 
getting through them is a matter of strength and momentum. Be¬ 
neath the surface a great deal more ice floats, driven under the 
top ice in this case by northwest winds, and as soon as we opened 
a little wedge in the windrow these submerged cakes would rise 
and fill it. 

With a quiet deck beneath us our spirits rose rapidly, and we 
began to take an interest in life again. 

We asked the captain how far we were from the Michigan 
shore. He said he didn't know. We could see nothing but ice on 
all sides, and it was snowing heavily. We asked him when he ex¬ 
pected to reach Grand Haven. He explained very definitely that 
he had no expectations whatever about anything. 

That bothered us. We were savagely hungry, and felt ex¬ 
tremely empty, as in fact through abstinence and heavy losses we 
really were. Our grub would last only two days; our money was 
very limited. Visions of possible starvation in this polar waste of 
ice floes rose before us. 

Darkness came on, and a bitter cold wind blew straight down 
from the straits of Mackinac, penetrating the thin walled deck¬ 
houses of the “Alabama” and chilling every cabin and passageway. 
The steam radiators hissed spitefully but were quite overwhelmed. 
We gathered in one of our staterooms and decided to consume one 
loaf of bread and half our cheese for supper. It was like pouring 
a pint of milk into a ten-gallon can. The bread and cheese merely 
annoyed us, emphasizing our vast vacancies. The outlook was 
gloomy; the present was sad. 

Someone knocked on our door and called, “Supper is served!” 



Scout Adventure 


[ 99 


‘‘Kill him!” yelled Bill. He looked out into the passageway and 
said it was the steward. 

Henry said, “It probably costs a dollar, which is fifty cents 
more than my whole roll, but let’s ask him if we can maybe get a 
sandwich and a piece of pie or something like that.” 

An investigator went after the Steward, and shortly came 
back dragging that official by the arm. 

“Tell ’em yourself, please sir; they would think I was kidding 
’em!” 

Whereupon the steward solemnly explained that, much as it 
hurt them to do it, the company was bound to feed its passengers 
without charge as long as the ship was held up enroute to her des¬ 
tination, and that we were welcome to dine as extensively as we 
cared to so long as the ice stopped us. 

I doubt if we waited to thank him; the carpet in the passage¬ 
way smoked all the way to the dining saloon. There, in a tem¬ 
perature below fifty, was served, with exact ceremonies, a five- 
course dinner that would have cost us, at stated prices, at least 
two dollars apiece. 

Our point of view was modified. We wondered hopefully if 
there was any chance of our being there a week, provided of course 
that the galley and pantry were plentifully stocked, and we inquired 
of the waiter whether they had often been stuck before, and if so, 
how long. Five days was apparently the longest delay on record. 

Outside was black cold and biting wind, and ice. The ship 
seemed to be an intruder suddenly set down in the midst of the 
Arctic ocean, with the North Pole probably just outside the circle 
of light from the cabin windows. 

Filled and warmed with food and drink we decided to go to 
bed. There really wasn’t anywhere else to go. 

The “landlady,” as Bob called the stewardess, brought us extra 


> 

> > 
> > > 




100 ] 


Thirteen Years op 


/ 


blankets from other staterooms, and we spent a perfectly happy 
night. 

The second day was intensely cold and fairly clear, but a black 
haze cloaked the horizon. Out of it shortly after breakfast, which 
was sumptuous, came a huge white ship, a car ferry from Grand 
Haven, crunching slowly and heavily over the ice floe. Its bow 
was blunt and its bottom was flat, and it proceeded by the simple 
device of climbing onto the ice until the ship’s weight broke it; 
then backing off and repeating, ad infinatum. 

In an hour the car ferry came abreast of us, and then circled 
laboriously about us, so that we were free to proceed in the com¬ 
paratively open path which it had made from the Michigan shore. 
The ferry captain shouted to our skipper that we were about twenty 
miles out. 

We had made less than five miles, however, when the channel 
became so clogged with ice which had floated up into it from be¬ 
neath the main surface floe that we lost the path, and zig-zagged 
about as various cracks and small patches of open water showed 
up ahead of us. Finally we got into a long open lane which might 
have been the ferry’s trail, but evidently it wasn’t, for after an hour 
of fairly rapid progress a white speck showed up ahead that soon 
became a lighthouse, but it was the wrong lighthouse! Muskegon, 
not Grand Haven, lay ahead of us. 

However, that didn’t matter much. Two days’ delay had al¬ 
ready made it impossible for us to spend any time ashore; we 
would go directly back on the ship and perhaps reach Chicago in 
time for school Monday. 

Muskegon is at the far side of Muskegon Lake, an arm of Lake 
Michigan six miles long and three miles wide, connected with the 
big lake by a mile-long narrow channel. As we aproached it, this 
channel appeared to be closed for keeps. Piles of ice concealed the 
breakwaters, and fresh snow lay deep over the ice. Through this 





Scout Adventure 


[ 101 


barrier, however, the “Alabama” slowly bored her way, shuddering 
in every rivet and raising high masses of ice high ahead of her con¬ 
crete reinforced bow. 

We crawled through the channel into the level expanse of Mus¬ 
kegon Lake, where men and horses were hauling sleds back and 
forth, and where dozens of little huts dotted the ice in all directions. 
These huts were the shelters of fishermen, who cut holes in the ice, 
put straw or board platforms around the holes, set up tiny stoves, 
and often stayed out there for several days at a time. 

They had figured that the ice outside had become too thick 
for ships to enter, and our advent was evidently as unwelcome as 
it was unexpected. 

Men rushed out of the huts and waved at us excitedly; bobsleds 
were pulled hastily out of our path before we should cut open a 
channel. The scene was certainly remarkable. Slowly we moved 
forward, on a zig-zag course, steering carefully around the huts, 
while their occupants watched us anxiously. The ice was so solid 
that scarcely any crack opened ahead of us, and the ice a few feet 
from the ship’s side remained undisturbed. 

A man came toward us on foot, pulling a light sled, and stopped 
almost dead ahead. Henry watched him with growing anxiety for 
several minutes, and then shouted to him from the bow where we all 
stood, “Hey, look out, you’ll get killed!” 

The man paid him no heed, but waved a greeting to the captain 
on the bridge above and called out to him, “Hello, Jim, shoot me a 
ladder!” He was the company’s agent from Muskegon, and had 
just strolled down the lake to meet the ship! 

A ladder was put over-side, and the agent walked up to it and 
climbed to the deck, while the “Alabama” scarcely paused in her 
trembling mile-an-hour gait. 

Reassured by this apparently daring exploit, we later went 
down the same ladder and stretched our muscles in tag games and 



Thirteen Years of 


102 ] 


snow fights, keeping always a safe distance from the stern of the 
ship where the propeller was throwing immense cakes of ice sev¬ 
eral feet into the air. 

Five minutes after the “Alabama” was tied to the dock, she 
looked as if she’d been there all winter; and, what worried us a 
little, she looked as if she’d be there all winter. 

The captain told us that he would try to start back for Chi¬ 
cago that night if the wind changed so as to shift the ice off shore. 
We decided to go down the shore of the lake for a short hike, cook 
our supper, and come back immediately to the ship. 

That supper was the coldest business we ever did. We were 
still addicted to pork and beans in those days, and our freezing 
fingers stuck to the can-opener. A smoky fire barely thawed the 
food, and Bob even claimed that the stuff froze to the spoon on the 
way to his mouth. We were glad enough to get back on board the 
“Alabama” and surround the radiators. 

Early in the evening we crashed our way back over our re¬ 
freezing trail to the inner end of the Lake Michigan channel, where 
we lay to. When we awoke in the morning we were headed out but 
still stationary, and shortly after breakfast we turned back for 
Muskegon. Evidently the ice was still considered to be too thick 
outside. 

At the dock the agent came out to greet us with a cheery hail— 

“Pretty good, captain! Daily service, eh?” 

We loaded some more freight and late in the afternoon we 
started out again to find things in the morning much the same as 
the previous day. The captain, however, was anxious to get out 
and decided to put up a fight. After jarring everything loose on 
board in successive charges on the ice pack in which we gained only 
half a mile, he stopped, like Dewey in Manila Bay, to rest the ship 
and have his breakfast. Half an hour later, returning to the bridge 
and giving “full speed astern” he discovered that the cold though 




1. “Three o’clock brought the welcome sight of an ice field ” 

2. “The Muskegon agent, with his sled, climbed to the deck.” 

3. “We stretched our legs in games by the ship’s side.” 

4. “The crew, armed with pike poles, cut the ship loose.” 
















Scout Adventure 


[ 103 


uncalculating enemy had stolen up in his rear and wedged him in 
tight. 

The “Alabama” shook from stem to stern, her screw revolved 
madly, but nothing else moved. Finally the commotion subsided, 
and we went below' to enjoy ourselves. Bill started writing a sce¬ 
nario—“Ten Husky Hikers on the High Seas”; Jack drew r pictures 
of icebergs; Thomson started a poem, and the rest of us read maga¬ 
zines. An hour later, going up on deck, w r e w r ere amazed to find 
every man of the crew madly working on the hurricane deck to cast 
loose and swing out the life boats! 

If the ship w r ere sinking, w r e could walk on the ice to the break¬ 
water which w r as only a few r yards distant; yet the mates w'ere urg¬ 
ing the men to speed, and the big Welin davits w r ere swinging out 
w r ith the heavy boats. 

The explanation of all this w r as that the boats w r ere partially 
filled with pig iron, and the quick swinging out of all the boats 
on one side of the ship w^as an expedient resorted to wdien the ship 
became frozen in, the idea being that the slight tendency to list 
resulting from this shift of weight might crack the ice adhering 
to the opposite side of the ship and thus free her. 

Apparently we had frozen too tight, however, for this trick to 
be of any avail. Presently the boats w r ere again secured and the 
crew r w r ent over the side armed with axes, picks, pike poles, and 
crow r bars, to chop the “Alabama” loose from Muskegon lake. 

This w r as slow and perilous work, for every now and then the 
ice would crack in an unexpected place and half a dozen men w^ould 
have to leap to safety. At last the ship w r as able to move astern a 
little, and then the real fight began. With the safety valve roar¬ 
ing continuously, and the boilers under forced draught, the captain 
raised the dickens wuth that ice pack. We hit it in several places 
tentatively at first, and then in a series of grand rushes broke 
through the channel into the open—field ice only a foot thick. 



Thirteen Years of 


104 ] 


Just then the sun came out brightly, and we enjoyed the finest 
picture of the whole trip. Glittering ice surrounded us, in some 
places smooth, in others piled up in high windrows. Flocks of gulls 
flew about the ship, black water opened behind us, and in the 
background were the ghostly white hills of the shore. We moved 
slowly on our way, and it looked as if the last stage of our “hike” 
was on. 

We had gone only a little way when we sighted another ship, 
evidently stuck fast. Proceeding with difficulty to her rescue, we 
found she was the Crosby liner “E. G. Crosby,” very helpless and 
very grateful for our aid. She followed us out toward the open 
lake, which, by the way, we never reached—for the ice extended 
clear across except for a few narrow open channels near the middle. 

We were getting to feel very much at home on the “Alabama.” 
We were all speaking nautical terms; we had learned something 
very interesting about winter navigation. We learned that the 
“Alabama” carried in winter a very heavy propeller, each blade 
weighing 1700 pounds. The previous week she had been stuck four 
days in a moving floe which carried her from near Grand Haven 
to a point opposite Pentwater before she was released. We learned 
that the wind is the all-important factor in the formation and 
breaking up of ice fields and windrows. 

We regarded with satisfaction our peculiar situation. Here 
we were, scouts on a scout hike, having all our meals cooked for us 
by a high-priced chef, and served to us in a luxurious dining room 
by a dignified colored waiter; no dishes to wash, no beds to make; 
not even any “inspection,” except of the chambermaid's work, 
which always “passed.” 

And the fact that they were losing several days of school work 
didn’t dismay the younger members of the party as perhaps it 
should have. We kept in touch by wireless with anxious parents 



Scout Adventure 


i 


[ 105 


in Chicago, one of whom queried the captain daily whether her son 
was still safe on board. 

We had come to have a sort of settled daily program, which 
was something like this: 

7 A.M.—Reveille (Steward knocking on stateroom doors). 

7:15—Getting-up exercises. 

7:30—Morning wash. 

7:45—Mess (Fruit, cereal, ham or bacon and eggs, rolls, coffee 
or milk). 

8:15—Observation; looking for anything new on the horizon. 

9:15—Instruction period. (Information trip about the ship, 

scout tests, literary efforts, etc.) 

12 M.—Mess (Soup, roast meat, vegetables, potatoes, pie). 

1:30—Indoor sports—(talking to officers, afternoon naps, etc.) 

3:00—Athletic period (Sweeping snow off decks, feeding the 
sea-gulls, chopping ice from ship’s side, or any 
other good turns we could think of). 

4:30—Guessing hour (Guessing what would happen next). 

5:30—Guard mount and evening watch (at dining room door). 

6:00—Mess (Soup, meat and potatoes, vegetables, rolls or 
toast, fruit, cakes, etc.) 

8:00—Evening radiator program—stories, stunts and similar 
camp-fire activities. 

9:30—Refreshments in staterooms (Milk and crackers, etc.) 

10:00—Taps. 

The item in the afternoon program referred to as feeding the 
sea-gulls merits explanation. These beautiful birds were always 
about the ship in great flocks, pouncing eagerly on any scraps 
thrown out on the ice. The surplus from the ship’s galley did not 
seem to be nearly enough, and we tossed overside our own surplus 
stock of bread and hardtack, bit by bit, enjoying the mad dash of 
several sharp-eyed gulls for each piece. 



106 ] 


Thirteen Years of Scout Adventure 


As our small supply of gull-fodder became exhausted we were 
in danger of running out of amusement, until Bob conceived the 
bright idea of tying a string to a piece of crust, and pulling back 
just as the birds were about to pounce on it. In this way we af¬ 
forded the gulls a lot of stimulating exercise with a very small 
amount of equipment. Sometimes, however, they were too quick 
for us, so eventually they got all our food anyway. 

That afternoon we had a regular scout treasure hunt on board 
as we progressed slowly toward Chicago. We reached Chicago 
very late that night, the red-and-white harbor flashlight gleaming 
across the dim whiteness about eight o'clock and increasing slowly 
in brilliance as we drove through delaying ice. We had been away 
five days. 

During the evening we all told what we would have changed 
about the trip, if we could have had it just as we wanted it. The 
only changes anybody suggested were the omission of the high 
seas of the first day, the lengthening of the trip by about a week, 
and time enough ashore to visit Camp Keesus as originally planned. 
Otherwise the whole adventure had been eminently satisfactory. 

We looked forward to the next winter, and trusted that it 
would be a cold one, with strong prevailing northwest winds. Win¬ 
ter hiking was certainly great sport! 



Chapter Nine 


DESPERATE DEEDS IN THE SAND 
DUNES OF INDIANA 

Five tough characters—The kidnapping of Lo¬ 
pez—A wet trip to Michigan City—Sleep¬ 
ing in warm snow—The escape from the ice 
berg. 









CHAPTER NINE 


Desperate Deeds In The Sand Dunes Of Indiana 


We come now to the adventure of the Bold Bad Bandits which 
Ray Overholtz of the 23rd troop innocently drew upon his trail 
when he became too boastful of his prowess with his new hunting 
knife in subduing desperadoes. 

The patrol leaders of the Woodlawn district were to have a 
four day hike to Michigan City, Indiana, through the sand dunes. 
It would have been a peaceful affair had it not been the occasion 
of Ray’s nerve test, which was given in the form of a stirring melo¬ 
drama worthy of the wildest West. 

We required a competent actor for the star role, and we se¬ 
lected the troop scribe, Russell Lopez, whose Spanish ancestry made 
him sufficiently temperamental to be a good prospect. To him was 
unfolded a plot somewhat like this: 

He was to start out with most of the other hikers, on this trip 
to Michigan City under the leadership of Assistant Scoutmaster 
Wilson Rutherford. The party would camp the first night in the 
dunes near Millers, Indiana, where they would expect the Scout¬ 
master and other scouts to join them the next day. 

But the Scoutmaster and a picked band of desperadoes would 
come out to Millers on the midnight car, surround the camp in the 
dunes and send two of their number, disguised, to seek out Lopez’ 


Thirteen Years of 


110 ] 


bed and carry him bodily off over the nearest ridge. Until beyond 
this ridge, Lopez was to make no outcry; if the bandits were seen 
by any wakeful members of the camp, very well; if they were not, 
just as well. 

Once beyond the ridge and out of sight of the camp, Lopez 
was to yell for help in his most realistic manner; meanwhile his 
captors would bear him, still wrapped in his blankets, to an old 
flag pole which stood about two hundred yards from the camp, out 
on the open beach, where they would tie him securely and leave 
him to continue yelling until help arrived. 

When rescued by his fellows, he was to tell them how he was 
awakened in a moment of terror to find a gag being stuffed into 
his mouth, and was then carried off and bound to the pole, where 
his captors removed the gag and told him to yell. 

Meanwhile the masked band would watch the camp until Ruth¬ 
erford led all but two, who would be left as guards, out to rescue 
the unfortunate Lopez. There Lopez’ instructions ended, with a 
warning of violent destruction if he should ever reveal the fake. 

It was certainly a desperate looking outfit that assembled at 
the corner of South Park Avenue and Sixty-third Street on the 
fateful evening to take the Hammond car—Henry Thomson, Bob 
Miller, Wayne Johnson, “Volley” Defaut, and one other. The 
hold-up party had all obeyed thoroughly the instruction to wear 
old clothes and to look as tough as possible. No one would have 
imagined that beneath those ragged coats and dirty trousers scout 
shirts and breeches were concealed. It was a bit disturbing to find 
that Wayne Johnson had improved on his instructions to the extent 
of arming himself with an awe-inspiring six-shooter and a ferocious 
fish knife. 

His zeal nearly wrecked the expedition. Standing on a corner 
in Hammond waiting for our connecting car to Millers, the party 
became restless, and Wayne in his exuberance started to climb a 



Scout Adventure 


[111 


telephone pole. Just then a policeman, in a plain overcoat but 
wearing a prominent star that proclaimed him one of Hammond’s 
guardians of the night, came along and suggested that Wayne 
should immediately descend. 

Wayne, intent on his footholds, mistook him for one of the 
party and yelled back, “Aw, shut up, I’d like to see YOU do this!” 

“Come down from there and let me look you over, or I’ll give 
you a free ride!” said the peeved cop, tapping Wayne’s foot emphat¬ 
ically with his club. 

Realizing his error, Wayne came down quickly. Fearful of 
what would happen if the policeman should discover Wayne’s arse¬ 
nal, the rest of the party talked fast and desperately, explaining 
that they were a party of innocent and law-abiding Boy Scouts 
intent only on having their little joke, and that they were very, 
very sorry to have insulted him. 

He was only half convinced, but said he’d overlook it. In vast 
relief the gang boarded the Millers car and finished their trip with¬ 
out further interruption. At Millers they hiked out toward the 
beach. They cached their packs at a hidden camp site half a mile 
from their objective and reconnoitered. Everything was fine. There 
in the faint moonlight lay the sleeping scouts, Adrian Kraus’ pup 
tent rising protectingly in the midst. There beside Rutherford lay 
the form that should be Lopez. 

The two kidnappers proceeded to do their stuff. Swiftly and 
silently they stole down the slope, and quickly they returned bear¬ 
ing their victim. Apparently nobody else in camp had stirred. 

The kidnapers disappeared toward the beach and shortly Lo¬ 
pez’ yells floated out wildly into the night. They were realistic 
enough to make anybody shiver. Presently the camp stirred. Above 
a rising buzz of voices could be heard Rutherford’s tones of com¬ 
mand. The rescue party, still half asleep, got under way. As per 
schedule, Williams and Overholtz remained on guard. 




112] 


Thirteen Years of 


Noiselessly two stalwart bandits stole up behind them and 
said hoarsely, “Hands up!” Two terrified scouts nearly collapsed, 
but obeyed. “Head for town, and move fast,” was the next com¬ 
mand. 

Williams gathered speed the faster. Overholtz, the stalwart, 
with his hunting knife at his belt, was frightened almost out of 
wind. He had stumbled only a few yards from camp when he was 
suddenly jumped on from behind and borne to earth. His assail¬ 
ant laid him on his stomach and pressed a tin spoon to his fore¬ 
head. “Keep quiet,” he hissed, “while I tie you up.” Overholtz 
was as silent as the grave which he imagined he might soon occupy. 
With ordinary string Bob Miller tied his hands behind his back 
and told him to remain still. 

Rapidly then, for a loud racket warned them that the rescuers 
were returning to camp, the desperadoes removed all packs and 
personal effects they could lay hands on in the camp and hid them 
some distance off behind a clump of small bushes. 

Returning close to the camp they listened to the blood-curdling 
tale which Lopez was telling. He was telling it well. Nervous 
hands piled wood on the fire, and the group gathered closely to¬ 
gether. 

“I saw him first! I saw him first!” Kraus was saying excit¬ 
edly, “I saw him from my tent!” 

“Why didn’t you give the alarm?” asked Rutherford. 

“Do you think I wanted to get filled full of lead?” 

Just then the absence of Overholtz and Williams was discov¬ 
ered. The plot thickened, but the scouts’ blood thinned. Urged 
by Rutherford, they finally explored the vicinity, keeping well 
within the circle of friendly firelight. A low moan attracted them 
to the spot where Overholtz lay. 

“Save me—I’m hurt,” he whispered when they came closer, and 
then, as they lifted him up, he told how he had been tripped and 



Scout Adventure 


[ 113 


how cold steel had been pressed to his brow while he was bound 
with strong rope. 

When they found that only ordinary string confined his wrists, 
they suspected nothing; so deeply awed were all of them that they 
gave the circumstance scarcely a thought. 

Back in camp, Overholtz’ spirits rose rapidly, and soon he was 
voicing loud threats against those villains if they should return. 

“Why didn’t you beat up the guy that jumped on you?” asked 
an unkind youth, but everybody quickly agreed that such a course, 
single-handed and unarmed, would have been foolhardy. 

Now the loss of the packs was discovered, and fresh wails of 
distress arose. Everybody suggested looking for them, but nobody 
did it. Most of the party found it necessary to help pile wood on 
the fire, while Overholtz drew his hunting knife and waved it aloft 
to emphasize the vengeance that would overtake anybody who might 
try to cross his trail again. 

This was too good to overlook. Bob, lying with the rest of the 
outlaws on the ridge just above the camp, arose and stood sil¬ 
houetted against the sky. Almost instantly one of the scouts below, 
all of whom were furtively watching the horizon of sand for a pos¬ 
sible return of their attackers, grabbed Overholtz by the arm and 
cried, “There’s one of ’em now!” By the time Overholtz looked in 
the right direction Bob was again lying down out of sight. Over¬ 
holtz saw only the bare ridge of sand and was overcome by a surge 
of desperate courage. 

Gripping his knife firmly he yelled, “Come on, let’s get ’em,” 
and making sure that he was followed by the entire party, he dashed 
up the ridge toward the ambushed gang. 

This was a ticklish moment. They waited until Overholtz’ 
head came into view, and then all together they arose and lunged 
toward them. The result was instantaneous. In the wild dash back 
to the shelter of the camp-fire Overholtz led by several lengths. 



114 ] 


Thirteen Years of 


Finally the excitement subsided somewhat. The frightened 
campers decided to go to Millers for a deputy sheriff, but not until 
daylight. 

The causes of all this distress withdrew to their own hidden 
camp site, where they felt safe from intrusion, and rolled up in 
their blankets for some long delayed sleep. 

They were to meet the rest of the troops and their leaders going 
on the hike shortly before noon, and when they woke up they had 
barely time to connect with them. Making them believe they had 
come on the car just ahead, the bandits joined with them and pro¬ 
ceeded, properly attired and with innocent faces, toward the scene 
of the previous night’s terrors. 

They found a haggard and nervous group, still searching for 
their packs, hungry, hollow-eyed, deeply distressed. 

Cheerily the newcomers asked, “Did you have a good night?” 
and waited in surprise when no answer was immediately forth¬ 
coming. 

After a tragic pause Kraus spoke up. “Some night! I’ll bet 
the things we’ve been through will shorten our lives at least ten 
years!” 

Then suddenly everyone began to talk at once, crowding around 
and letting loose the whole desperate story. 

We listened incredibly, and offered to help hunt for the miss¬ 
ing packs. Strangely enough we found them, and after a meal par¬ 
tial order was restored. 

The effects of the midnight terrors gradually wore off, and 
unless they read these pages some members of that party will never 
know that the dignified Scoutmaster planned all the details of that 
raid, so successfully carried out by Bob and Wayne and Henry and 
“Volley”; or that the carrying out of those details was personally 
supervised by the said Scoutmaster who lay under a young cedar 
tree through the whole delightful performance until he was needed 



Scout Adventure 


[ 115 


to assist in carrying off the pack sacks. The burden of this secret 
had compensations, however—I wouldn’t have missed it for any¬ 
thing. 

We started on for Michigan City in a rain, with a cold east 
wind blowing in our faces. We reached a little shanty at Dune 
Park about six o’clock, and proceeded to make ourselves as com¬ 
fortable as we could. Eighteen scouts had to cook their suppers in 
individual mess kits over one small, degenerate stove, and it was 
a good thing we had a picked bunch along, who could be patient, 
considerate, and unfailingly cheerful. Later we had equally diffi¬ 
cult sleeping arrangements to make. Those who were equipped to 
withstand the weather bunked outside under our ponchos; the rest 
squeezed into the shanty. 

The next morning we cooked breakfast over the same limited 
stove, rolled our damp blankets, and hiked on, still in the rain. 
We made good time during the morning, and stopped for dinner 
opposite Tremont, at Waverly Beach. As we were unslinging our 
packs the rain stopped and the sun came out, so that we were able 
to dry ourselves and our effects and to enjoy a fine meal. 

After dinner we climbed Mount Tom, highest of all the dunes, 
and surveyed a considerable expanse of country. Late in the after¬ 
noon we passed the Prairie club house, and a mile further on we 
halted to investigate a camp site for the night. The sun had gone in, 
and the wind blew from the north, so a sheltered spot was essential. 
We found an ideal place, and proceeded to hunt dry wood and make 
supper. These operations were carried out successfully, and every¬ 
body was preparing his bed when a few rain drops warned us of 
impending unpleasantness. 

We packed up and hiked back along the beach, looking for a 
vacant cottage we had seen earlier, and trusting to have a roof 
over our heads for the night. Finally we located the cottage and 



Thirteen Years of 


116 ] 


found that it had a large screened porch. The building itself was 
inaccessible on account of a large brass padlock and hasp on a 
heavy pine door. 

The porch therefore became our haven for the night, and we 
built a large fire in front of it so that we could see to dispose of 
our beds on the floor. The night was so dark that without a light 
we could not see anything more than a foot away. When every¬ 
body had turned in, Thomson and I took all the canteens and 
walked back to the Prairie club house, where was the nearest well, 
to replenish our water supply. We walked along the lake beach, 
where every few seconds a white swirl would roar out of the dark¬ 
ness and disappear on the sand—we could not see just where the 
waves broke—and every little while we would walk straight into 
the water before we realized it. 

When we got back to camp we had to build the fire again and 
dry ourselves before turning in. Blankets were very welcome. 

Wednesday morning it still rained hard. We built fires out¬ 
side and ate breakfast on the porch, starting off about nine o’clock 
to go the remaining ten miles to Michigan City. The rain never 
stopped. We halted for lunch in the shelter of a pine grove. 

We reached Michigan City about four o’clock, and bought our 
tickets for Chicago. 

The warm, comfortable train was welcome, and we traversed 
in an hour a distance that had taken us the greater part of three 
days to cover on the hike. 

Everybody returned home well and satisfied, and the Michigan 
City hike took its place among the thoroughly enjoyable trips within 
our Scouting experience. 

Each scout had learned something—how to carry a load, how 
to build a fire quickly under adverse conditions, how to be happy 
though damp and hungry, how to make a blanket bed, and how to 



Scout Adventure 


[ 117 


observe some of the scout laws relating to helpfulness, courtesy, 
friendliness, obedience, etc. 

These last lessons had been fairly well learned before the hike, 
however—else the story of the hike would not have been so pleasant. 


We hiked in the sand dunes in hot weather and cold. They 
had a charm that called to us always; they were a unique place 
for outdoor adventure. E. Stillman Bailey, in his book entitled, 
“The Sand Dunes of Indiana,” says this about them: 

“A dune is a pile or ridge of incoherent sands, orderly or fan¬ 
tastically fashioned by prevailing winds. Sand dunes are common 
the world over; they are supposed to be inhospitable spaces of the 
earth. 

“The lure of the dunes is kin to the lure of the desert and the 
desire for great waste spaces. They have, however, a uniqueness 
of their own which admits of no comparison. They breathe mys¬ 
tery and romance, and appeal to the imagination. They have a 
temper and charm which you come to know and feel. At times they 
are in the area of fierce storms, with desert winds and blinding 
sands, and at other times one can, paradoxically speaking, listen 
to the voices of their silence. A hundred theories may explain their 
appeal, but, after all, the spell they cast becomes your own, to unrid¬ 
dle in your own way. The dunes are alluring and fascinating, and 
with the varying seasons their changing forms and colors weave 
for you a wealth of fact and a wreath of fancy. Their secrets are 
many, and their wild beauty is a pleasure to the eye and a joy to 
the memory.” 

Our best hikes to the dunes were in the winter when snow 
covered the sand and mantled the pine forests, while ice formations 
strange and enormous took shape on the frozen beach. The recol¬ 
lection is still vivid of those mid-winter trips when we left Chicago 
in the afternoon and arrived in the dunes after dark to hike to our 
camping spot. 



118 ] 


Thirteen Years of 


Blackness—above, ahead, behind us; denser blackness on the 
left; whiteness on the right, with noise—these made the entire sum 
of our sense impressions as we hiked against the stiff north wind 
along the south shore of Lake Michigan on a January night. 

On our right was the ice on the lake, showing clear in spite of 
the darkness of the night, groaning and hissing as the breakers 
struck it on its outer edge. The dark masses on our left were the 
trees of the forest-covered sand hills. The snow on the sand beach 
was not white enough to lighten our path; only toward the lake 
was there any light at all. 

When we left the beach and climbed the hill of sand, it was 
still and very dark. The white ground showed faintly for a few 
yards about us. The thick growing black pine trees shut out the 
slightly less black sky. We pitched our tent; its brown mass looked 
a lighter shade of black than the trees. We gathered wood for the 
fire, chopping viciously to warm ourselves, and soon a tiny yellow 
flame sprang into being. Five minutes later the fire burned bright 
and hot, casting shadows which lightened the blackness of the trees 
and intensified the whiteness of the snow, giving it a deceptively 
warm pink tint. We sat down on our packs in the circle of light 
and prepared our late supper. This spot was like any other in the 
black bleak wilderness a few minutes ago; now it had become a com¬ 
fortable, cheerful camp, where we felt at our ease as though we had 
been there for a long time. The magic of the fire made it so! 

Then came the venture of crawling into chilly blankets—in 
those days we hadn’t heard much about sleeping bags—and there 
was much comment on the possibility of all-night comfort, depend¬ 
ing on the resistance of woolen sweaters, heavy socks, and carefully 
folded blanket envelopes. A few pine boughs from which the snow 
had been shaken separated us from the snow on which we lay; 
often we had no tent to protect us from the chill above and around 




Scout Adventure 


[ 119 


us. In the morning we sometimes found ourselves covered with 
fresh snow, which had to be brushed away before we could stand 
on our beds for a lightning dressing act. No setting-up exercises 
were needed; the struggle with frozen shoe leather and laces warmed 
everything but our fingers, and those we scorched with our bacon 
before our breakfast fire. 

The days in the frozen dunes afforded great sliding, which left 
indelible faded areas on our breeches; exploring of the ice caves 
and windrows on the shore; and sometimes, when it thawed, the 
construction of vast fortifications defended in bloody snow battles. 

On one day in early spring, when the ice floe along shore was 
beginning to break up, Henry Thomson ventured out on the ice to 
the very edge of the open water, and was posing for a photograph 
to be entitled, “Marooned on an iceberg,” when suddenly there came 
an ominous cracking sound at his feet. Without any other warning 
a large section of ice detached itself from the main mass and began 
to drift slowly seaward with Henry as a very much excited passen¬ 
ger. Narrowly missing a fall into the icy lake he wielded his trusty 
axe and checked his departure long enough to make a wild leap 
to the mainland, where Lopez caught him and helped him to his 
feet. The photograph of this thrilling incident was a complete suc¬ 
cess and is reproduced in an earlier chapter. 



\ 


' 



Chapter Ten 


THE GOOD TURN AT FORT SHERIDAN 

A war-time service corps without service—Just¬ 
ifying the scout motto—High praise from Col. 
Nicholson—A patrol leader who could lead. 





CHAPTER TEN 


The Good Turn At Fort Sheridan 


Fifty first-class scouts selected by severe examination, trained 
in public service duty, able to mobilize at any point on less than an 
hour’s notice, a concrete example of the scout motto in practice— 
this was the Woodlawn District Special Service Corps organized 
in the stirring days of March, 1917. 

Except for purposes of service or instruction, the Corps had 
no separate organization, no officers, and no regular meetings. Its 
activities did not in any way interfere with or take the place of 
troop activities. One service Corps scout was assigned to each pub¬ 
lic school in the district as the representative of Scouting in that 
school, to look after the interests of the organization and to co¬ 
operate with the principal in arranging for scout service in connec¬ 
tion with school events. 

Members of the Corps who had bicycles were expected to qual¬ 
ify, according to certain requirements in condition of mount, cyclist 
drill, knowledge of repairs, and practice rides, for the Cyclist De¬ 
tachment, which was called upon for certain work that scouts with¬ 
out wheels could not do. 

Every member of the Corps was required to have the following 
equipment: 

A complete uniform in good condition. 


Thirteen Years of 


124 ] 


Staff, guard rope, whistle and canteen. 

Members of the Corps were called out for service by mobiliza¬ 
tion officers appointed from the Corps, by the use of the special 
telephone code. 

Absolute trustworthiness was the most important requirement 
for every member of the Special Service Corps. 

Each member was furnished with a copy of a special mobiliza¬ 
tion code, which was hung near the telephone in his home, and five 
mobilization officers were selected. By means of the code these 
mobilization officers could give directions by telephone to scouts 
or their parents, telling them in not more than six words where 
and when to assemble, what equipment to bring, and what the 
nature and duration of the service was to be. 

For two months we cultivated the ability and dependability 
of this emergency unit, but no emergency arose that called for its 
special service, though of course all the troops were embarking on 
the various general war-time scout enterprises. 

Just exactly what our outfit might be called upon to do nobody 
knew, but there was a feeling that the forming of the unit was in 
line with a proper desire to “Be Prepared” for whatever might 
turn up. 

On May 14th the Special Service bunch got its big chance. To 
the office of the Chicago Council at 4 o’clock in the afternoon came 
a long distance call from the Commandant at Fort Sheridan, Illi¬ 
nois, to this effect: The Officers’ Training Camp would open there 
next morning. Through an error at Washington a company of 
regulars stationed at Fort Sheridan had just been ordered to imme¬ 
diate duty elsewhere. These regulars were to have rendered vital 
assistance Avith the Training Camp. Thousands of student officers 
would be reporting the next morning with nobody to tell them where 
to go or what to do, no clerks to operate the post office, no order¬ 
lies to serve the instructing staff. Two scouts, sons of officers at 



Scout Adventure 


[ 125 


the post, had been assisting about the Headquarters for a few days, 
and because of their acceptable service it had occurred to Col. 
Nicholson, the Commandant, that there might be a bare chance of 
getting Boy Scouts to meet the emergency for a week until the War 
Department could detail troops to relieve the situation. Could 
fifty scouts report at Fort Sheridan at seven o’clock the next morn¬ 
ing, prepared to stay a week? Quarters and board would of course 
be provided for them. 

Mr. George G. Walker, then office secretary at the Chicago 
Headquarters, replied that he didn’t see how it could be done—the 
boys were in school, and anyway there was no means of assembling 
that number of scouts for such exacting duties on such short notice. 
Then he was reminded of the Special Service Corps, and paused a 
moment. Could we do it? We could—just watch us! 

“There is a chance that it can be done,” said Mr. Walker over 
the telephone. 

“We shall depend upon it!” said the officer at the other end of 
the wire. 

At six that night the call was sent out for the Corps to assem¬ 
ble at the district office at seven, an interview having been held in 
the meantime with the Superintendent of Schools. Nothing was 
said in the call about the nature of the business in hand. 

At seven the gang were all there. Many had come without their 
suppers. 

“How many of you could go to Fort Sheridan tomorrow morn¬ 
ing for a week of service in connection with the opening of the 
O. T. C., all expenses except your carfare to be paid by Uncle Sam, 
and full credit to be given by the schools for the time you miss from 
school?” 

“Wow! Say that again !” 

They thought they could all go, except two who had outside 
jobs they couldn’t leave. 



126 ] 


Thirteen Years of 


“All right. Go home and tell your folks, and unless you tele¬ 
phone tonight saying that you can’t make it, we’ll expect to see you 
at the Elevated Station at 5:30 tomorrow morning.” 

Thus was launched a unique and useful undertaking. Three 
boys, including the two whose jobs prevented and one whose mother 
was a bit severe, regretfully announced their inability to go. All 
the rest were on hand in the morning. In charge of Mr. Ralph 
Nodine, then the district secretary and leader of the Corps, they 
arrived at the Fort on time. Things happened immediately, and 
continued to happen. 

It was originally intended to withdraw the service of the scouts 
after the rush of getting the camp settled, but when the time came 
for the boys to leave, the officers to whom they were detailed said 
they could not get along without them. Therefore arrangements 
were made to send a new detail of boys to the post every two weeks, 
and in that manner to furnish service throughout the camp, at the 
same time not interfering with the boys’ school work. 

At the opening of both the first and second camps the scouts 
met all the trains, acted as guides to the new men, assisted with 
the overwhelming amount of clerical work in connection with the 
registrations, and even taught signalling in several companies. To 
quote from the Chicago Daily News: 

“Scouts may be seen everywhere on the reservation. In the 
Adjutant’s office they act as orderlies, while at the office of the 
Senior Instructor they do clerical work. Three scouts work every 
day at the post office, sorting, collecting, and delivering mail. Boys 
at the telegraph office hunt out every day over a hundred Toms, 
Dicks, and Harrys, and hand them little manila envelopes contain¬ 
ing messages that enliven the day’s work. At the Y. M. C. A. head¬ 
quarters a scout assists the secretaries behind the desk when he is 
not on duty operating the Victrola. In addition to all these duties 
the scouts have one of their number assigned to each of the thirty 
company officers as orderly. These boys carry the company’s reports, 



Scout Adventure 


[ 127 


sort its mail, and run hundreds of errands for the officers and men 
every day.” 

A major’s quarters of twelve rooms was provided for the scouts, 
and the government furnished fuel, light, etc. The house was lo¬ 
cated in the midst of the officers’ residences, within a hundred 
feet of the bluff overlooking Lake Michigan. During the entire 
period of service Mr. Nodine remained in charge. 



(From the Fort Sheridan “Reveille.”) 


Usually the day’s work was over at supper time, and the scouts 
met at their headquarters for an hour of drill, games, etc. When 
the weather permitted, there was often a swim just before turning 
in for the night. Many of the students at the camp who were scout¬ 
masters in their home cities came to tell stories around the big log 
fire in the evenings. 








128 ] 


Thirteen Years of 


To show their appreciation of the service rendered by the scouts, 
the men of the first camp made a collection of $400.00, part of 
which was used to have suitable souvenir pins made and awarded 
to the scouts who were on the Honor Roll for Fort Sheridan service. 

Two days before school opened in the fall, on September 1, the 
scouts were withdrawn, after more than three month’s steady ser¬ 
vice: Colonel Nicholson wrote a letter to the Scout Executive on 
August 17, 1917, expressing his appreciation as follows: 

“Upon the breaking up of this the first training camp I wish to 
express to you my high appreciation of the work done by the Boy 
Scouts here during the last three months. The boys have surely done 
their bit. Each scout has taken the place of a grown man, and has 
performed all the varied duties required in the spirit of cheerfulness 
and helpfulness, which has evoked the admiration of all. I wish 
I could personally thank every scout, but as I cannot do this I want 
to give them something which will be a lasting reminder of their 
work here and our appreciation. I am enclosing a check for $400.00 
which we hope you may use in procuring special badges for all the 
boys who were on duty here. Any money left over from this we 
wish you to use in any way you may see fit. 

“Again expressing my appreciation, I remain, 

“Yours sincerely, 

(Signed) W. J. NICHOLSON, 

Colonel, 11th Cavalry, 

Commanding Officer.” 

“Headquarters, 

Military Training Camp, 

Fort Sheridan, Ill.” 

The valuable after-effects of this war service were many. One 
of them was illustrated at the Scout Exposition held in Chicago 
some time later. 

At the Armory where this show was put on, scouts of the Spe¬ 
cial Service Corps were posted as door-keepers, ticket takers, and 



Scout Adventure 


[ 129 


messengers. One of the acts on the program was a signaling page¬ 
ant. It was supposed to portray the history of signaling from 
early Greek or Roman beacon fires and the flaming cross of the 
Swiss cantons, down to the present day of wig wag and wireless. 
Half a dozen new troops from a settlement house district were to 
produce this scene, mainly because they had no scout uniforms 
and would supposedly get a thrill out of attiring themselves in more 
or less historically correct cambric costumes. 

They did. Miniature copies of couriers and torchbearers of 
past ages ran amuck in all parts of the Armory. The kids were 
new scouts still untamed from the ways of the street. Their scout¬ 
masters had not appeared. 

A refreshment stand was selling little individual pies—custard, 
lemon, and apple, for ten cents each. The signalers bought or 
swiped the entire stock, ate part of it, and then practiced the de¬ 
lightful stunt of dropping half sections of sticky pie from the bal¬ 
cony rail onto the heads of innocent members of the audience who 
moved about inspecting the merit badge exhibit booths before the 
performance began. 

The discipline of the entire situation was threatened, and the 
reputation of Scouting was being shattered by the impact of fra¬ 
gile pies on bald heads. 

The director of the show tried vainly to stop the pie-droppers. 
Every available man was busy in a last moment rush of prepara¬ 
tion and the director appealed to the officer in charge of the Special 
Service Corps to find some means of quelling the disturbance. 

To Lefty Harfield, his personal orderly, the officer said: “Go 
and corral those signal kids in a corner of the balcony and keep 
them there until they come on for their act!” 

“Yes sir!” Lefty saluted as he replied, and went after them. 

Lefty was a small scout, an efficient patrol leader of quiet man¬ 
ner, who had large confidence in his officers. Often at Fort Sheri- 





130 ] 


Thirteen Years of Scout Adventure 


dan they had asked him to do difficult things. He had been intelli¬ 
gent enough to realize that these things needed to be done and he 
had been ingenious enough to do them. 

It didn’t occur to him that most of the fifty wild signalers were 
bigger than he was, or that they were at once the terror and the 
despair of their own scoutmasters. He had been given a job that 
must be done. 

Just how he did it I don’t know, but it is a fact that within 
two or three minutes he had the entire “signal corps” assembled in 
a section of gallery seats, in front of which he stood announcing 
that none of them would leave there until he gave the word. 

They had never been treated so before. Very few people had 
ever attempted to control their movements and those who had were 
always obviously fearful of the results. Here was a small boy, 
wearing a uniform of high scout rank, actually giving them orders 
without the least lack of confidence that they would obey. Through 
respect, or surprise or weariness, or all of them, they stayed put, 
and when their act came Lefty marshalled them quietly onto the 
floor, off again, and back to their seats. 

Special Service Corp training had saved the situation. 




Chapter Eleven 


A TENDERFOOT SCOUTMASTER 
IN THE FARTHEST WEST 

4 

Emigrating to the Charmed Land—Strange tools 
of scoutcraft—Learning a lot in a hurry— 
Camping on a new kind of canal—Wild pigs 
and painted caves in California. 












“High Alpine Meadows Sprinkled With Lakes and Wild Flowers—” 

(The trees are Alpine firs, which grow only at comparatively high altitudes.) 







CHAPTER ELEVEN 


A Tenderfoot Scoutmaster In The Farthest West 


Late in 1919 there came a call to a Chicago scout officer to go 
out to the Pacific Northwest and undertake an executive position 
with the Seattle Council. 

Strangely enough, as it seems now, the prospect was not in the 
least alluring. Chicago was a great and busy city; around it much 
fine adventure had been enjoyed; in it there was plenty of need for 
Scouting to be extended and developed. Seattle?—it was a word 
that called up only two pictures. One was of a totem pole standing 
in a public square, which had probably brightened a page of a school 
geography; the other was a newspaper headline announcing that 
one Ole Hansen, a rough and ready Seattle mayor, had once quelled 
some sort of labor disturbance. 

To Dwight Ramsay of Keesus days, then a fellow worker in 
Chicago Scouting, the Seattle opening was mentioned lightly, a 
few days later, as a matter of no interest to anyone as busy and as 
happy as we considered ourselves to be. 

“Do you know anything about Seattle?” Ramsay inquired. 

“Nothing at all, except that it’s on the Pacific coast somewhere 
near Portland, and has lumber-jacks and Eskimos and a totem pole 
on the main street.” 

This was before the enterprising eastern advertising of the 


Thirteen Years of 


134 ] 


Seattle Chamber of Commerce; now such a degree of ignorance 
might not be excusable, even in Chicago. 

Ramsay, it seemed, had visited Seattle frequently when he was 
stationed at a Puget Sound fort in the Coast Artillery service dur¬ 
ing the war. He led me into a quiet restaurant and spent two hours 
enlightening me about the city of Seattle and the Pacific Northwest. 
As I have since come to know, he really told me very little, but he 
did picture Seattle as a vigorous place and the ideal headquarters 
of one who enjoyed outdoor experiences unusual and unexpected. 

So it came about that Ramsay’s friend made a long railroad 
journey of exploration and found at the end of it much to amaze, 
interest, and strongly attract him. 

On this “trial trip” the location of the Seattle summer camp 
was a matter of prime interest. 

“Yes, we have a camp site, over on the west side of the Canal,” 
Mr. John H. Piper told me in answer to my question. 

The only canal of any importance I had ever seen was the Chi¬ 
cago Drainage Canal, on which the “May” had cruised—a straight 
and very practical ditch fifty yards wide, smelling frankly of its 
uses. The Panama, Suez, and other canals of which I had read 
were similar, though more extensive and of less distinctive atmos¬ 
phere. I thought I knew what a canal was, and it was astonishing 
and disappointing to learn that ’way out here, with such an appar¬ 
ent latitude of choice, a camp site should have been chosen on the 
bank of a canal. 

“I suppose there must be a forest or something that makes it 
attractive?” T asked hopefully. 

“Well, it is largely logged-off land,” was the answer, and in 
my mind there formed the distressing picture of a bare stretch of 
land on a canal bank, dotted with forlorn tents and perhaps a mess 
shack. It must be a fierce place! 

Would you like to go over and see it?” asked Mr. Piper, who 
had supervised the first development of the site. 



Scout Adventure 


[ 135 


Sadly I prepared for the trip, wondering how such a mistake 
could have been made by apparently intelligent scout leaders. 

The next afternoon, we took a steamer across the Sound to 
Bremerton, the Navy Yard City, and then a stage across the Kitsap 
County peninsula. 

Just at dark we reached Seabeck. Here a cool wind blew in 
from an expanse of water whose extent was not apparent and a 
small gas boat bobbed uncertainly against a dock. Toward this 
we walked. All the way I had been confused as to our destination; 
now I was still more perplexed as to our course. 

“What’s this, the ocean?” I asked. We had certainly come far 
enough west from Seattle to reach the Pacific, I thought, and the 
lapping of sizable waves on the beach and the name of the little port 
combined to strengthen the impression. 

“Oh, no!” said Piper with a hearty laugh, “This is the Canal.” 

The Canal!—How wide is it?” I asked after the first shock had 
passed. 

“About five miles right here,” said Piper, “but in some places 
it’s only one or two miles wide.” 

So this was Hood Canal—five miles wide—a great salt water 
arm of the sea—this was the canal on which our camp was located! 

In the darkness we could barely see the majestic mountains 
which line the farther shore of the canal and form the jagged limit 
of vision from Seattle westward. Clouds obscured their perpet¬ 
ually snow capped summits, on some of which we were later to 
stand, but the foothill range which formed the immediate bank or 
shore line was dimly visible. 

“Those are high bluffs over there,” remarked the tenderfoot 
scoutmaster as the gas boat headed toward them. 

“Yes, about three thousand feet high,” said Mr. Piper and pro¬ 
ceeded to tell me a little about the Olympic mountains, of which 
more later. 



136] 


Thirteen Years of 


It developed that the camp site, a reservation of 280 acres, was 
at the water’s edge on a small cove just off the main channel of the 
canal, with a splendid swimming beach and a great substantial 
lodge set in a clearing surrounded by tall firs and cedars. Only 
a portion of the property was logged off, and that was already 
growing up to young trees again. 

The lodge had an immense stone fireplace before which we sat 
and talked through the long evening while the newcomer from the 
east absorbed the atmosphere of the wilderness in large and delight¬ 
ful drafts. 

We talked of the future of the northwest, and of the good for¬ 
tune of boys who can be scouts and growing up in such a country, 
and of the camp and the appeal of camping. 

After all, though we may not think it, one of the chief reasons 
why we like to go into the wilderness is because in the open coun¬ 
try all our movements are under our own control. 

Consider the number of obstacles encountered, wherever peo¬ 
ple are concentrated in large numbers, merely in going from one 
spot to another in the course of their daily affairs. At street cor¬ 
ners we must wait for traffic to halt so that we can pass; at sta¬ 
tions we must wait for busses or trains to take us on our way; in 
downtown buildings we must wait for elevators to carry us up or 
down; in offices we must wait while those ahead of us are inter¬ 
viewed; in stores we must take our turn with busy clerks. 

It is hardly surprising, then, that city dwellers who have ex¬ 
perienced it speak so feelingly of the “freedom of the great open 
spaces.” 

Thus we developed the philosophy of the outdoors, until the 
logs fell into ashes and the night chill touched our backs. Then, 
we unfolded cots before the fireplace and slept. 

After four days in the new country, the visitor returned to 
tell his wife that out toward the sunset was the Charmed Land, 



Scout Adventure 


[ 137 


and with much regret at the prospect of leaving fine friends and 
familiar places, it was agreed that the scene should be shifted two 
thousand miles westward. 

To see the far west from a transcontinental train or a National 
Park auto stage is one thing—to see it as a scout on foot with your 
entire outfit on your back, is quite another thing. And the scout’s 
hiking grounds extend to regions far beyond the sound of any train 
whistle, and where there will be no imprints of tire treads on the 
trail for many years to come. 

Here the most fascinating scout lore comes from the dream to 
the reality; here one really can get lost in untracked spaces; here 
one can follow the fresh tracks of wild game; here a knowledge of 
the compass and the stars, and the art of sketching maps is not 
merely interesting, but essential. 

Our first introduction to hiking in the new surroundings was 
a four day trip through the Kitsap peninsula just west of Seattle, 
between Hood Canal and the main channel of Puget Sound. Its 
leader was Wilbur Rilev of Bremerton, scoutmaster and ex-forest 
ranger. 

We hiked over the Blue Hills of Kitsap County, through vir¬ 
gin timber and cut-over land, across streams and deep ravines, up 
high slopes to splendid view points, in sun and in rain. With be¬ 
wildering rapidity I absorbed fragments of knowledge about skid 
roads, burns, chapparal, and greasewood thickets; about the art 
of walking calmly along a two-hundred foot log forty feet above the 
ground, balancing a pack on one’s back, and about many other 
things I hadn’t heard of in Chicago. Riley was a fast coach but 
a patient one; my first lesson in western outdoor craft was a large 
assignment. 

One thing that bothered me was the absence of firewood in 
the forest. Accustomed to breaking off limbs for my kindling, I was 
a bit upset to find the lowest limbs on the giant firs at least a hun- 



Thirteen Years of 


138 ] 


dred feet above the ground, and the fallen stuff in the dim jungle 
was too wet to be of use. It appeared, however, that there was 
usually a blow-down within reach, or a few dead standing snags, 
or other sources of firewood which the big live timber did not afford. 

The wilderness of Kitsap County was a good introduction, but 
only an introduction, to the fartherest western wilderness. Across 
Hood Canal extending to the ocean, rose the Olympics, challenging 
the imagination and the ability of scouts and scout leaders, hold¬ 
ing unguessed secrets for the explorer of untracked places. 

There came to mind, in the consideration of this prospect, the 
lines in Kipling’s poem, “The Explorer”; quoted at the beginning 
of Dillon Wallace’s book, “The Lure of the Labrador Wild”: 

“Something hidden—go and find it! 

Go and look behind the ranges— 

Something lost behind the ranges; 

Lost, and waiting for you—go!” 

On the Olympic peninsula are the most rugged mountains and 
the densest forests in the United States. Included in it are the 
Olympic National Forest and Monument. This space of more than 
4,000 square miles is still largely unexplored; few trails penetrate 
it; elk, bear, deer, and small game roam almost unmolested. It is 
the last West, still unspoiled by the trespass of civilization. Its 
mountain scenery matches any of our National parks; yet it is iso¬ 
lated and practically unknown. 

At the eastern edge of this region the Seattle Council five 
years ago established its summer camp, which has become a base 
for wonderful adventure. 

The camp is at the edge of salt water on the shore of Hood 
Canal; yet within a day’s hike scouts can break ice on lakes to go 
swimming in July, indulge in snowball fights in August, and pho- 




Camp Parsons, at the Edge of the Olympic National Forest, on Hood Canal, as it Looked in 1923. This 

Clearing is in the Midst of a 280-Acre Scout Reservation. 






Scout Adventure 


[ 139 


tograph wild animals on any clear morning. They can map the 
course of nameless rushing streams and measure with an aneroid 
barometer the altitude of nameless snow-capped peaks. 

On trips of five to ten days’ duration into this country the 
original arts of scoutcraft are tested to the utmost. To follow a 
faint trail long unused, to discern old blazes on mossy tree trunks 
in the twilight of the forest jungle, to determine safe routes where 
no trails exist, to find natural bridges over rushing rivers, to make 
and break camp quickly,—all these arts of the woodsman, as well 
as those of the mountaineer—on snow, ice, rock slide, and cliff— 
are essential abilities of scouts who join these parties. 

On sixteen trips which were scheduled for this last season, 
scouts traveled through forests where the ground is dusty under 
giant cedars after the heaviest rain. They traversed Alpine mead¬ 
ows where a dozen species of wild flowers cover acres of loveliness. 
They made their way over snow fields and glaciers to gaze on hun¬ 
dred-mile panoramas from rocky summits far above the clouds. 

To scouts who qualify for such expeditions the council Head¬ 
quarters issues these interesting instructions: 

“The equipment and the organization of long mountain hikes 
are different from those of all other scout enterprises. 

“First of all, a scout planning to go on any of these expeditions 
should consider these four important facts: 

“1. Every bit of your equipment—including grub, bedding, 
clothing, and utensils must be carried on your back all the way. 

“2 From the start to the finish you’ll be out of touch with 
civilization—no chance to secure forgotten articles, replenish food 
supplies, communicate with camp or otherwise correct mistakes. 

“3. Because the trips are over seldom-traveled routes, faint 
trails, or entirely untracked wilderness, a scout cannot be sent 
back on account of physical unfitness, etc., without holding up the 
whole party. 



Thirteen Years of 


140 ] 


“4. The Olympic hikes are through regions that have never 
been accurately mapped and in which no geological surveys have 
been made. Therefore they are exploring expeditions, to add to 
our knowledge of this most rugged of mountain country and densest 
of North American forests. From each trip we bring back fresh 
data of important and permanent value.” 

Of course, these four statements suggest that only fairly husky 
scouts undertake these hikes—and that’s right. They also suggest 
that careful preparation is very important—that’s right, too. To 
balance the statements made above, consideration of these four 
also should be made, covering four seasons’ experience: 

1. The average weight of packs for mountain hikes has been 
only twenty pounds. 

2. Every party has come back with a small amount of surplus 
grub. 

3. Only two scouts have ever been disabled on a mountain hike, 
and in both cases the cause was badly fitting shoes. 

4. No party has ever been lost or delayed more than one day. 
Only men of proven ability are entrusted with the leadership of 
Olympic hikes. 

The details regarding shoes, personal outfit, and the rules of 
the trail are interesting. To each would-be mountaineer scout this 
counsel is given: 

“You should have a rover pack, large knapsack, or lightweight 
wooden pack board. Your pack must weigh little of itself, it must 
fit you comfortably, riding high on strong wide straps, it must close 
securely and open easily. It must be hung so that it will stay with 
you—a poorly hung pack might shift suddenly and pull you off a 
ledge or a stream-log, or it might leave you entirely and drop 
quietly over a cliff. 

“A wool-bat sleeping bag of light weight, with a waterproof 
cover or envelope, is the best rig to sleep in. Next in preference 
comes a wool quilt or two light wool blankets, with a ground cloth 



Scout Adventure 


[ 141 


or light poncho. Nights are cold in the higher altitudes, even in 
August. 

“Your shoes are even more important than pack or bedding. 
They must fit comfortably, they must be strong and in good repair. 
They must be well-oiled so that they will be soft and easy, and will 
dry quickly when wet. Soles must be thick enough to take calks 
or hobnails, but not too thick, for light weight is essential. If you 
buy a pair of shoe-pacs or boots be sure they’re of soft leather, with 
flexible soles, and not over 10 inches high. 

“Wear old pants or scout breeches—(be sure they’re not tight) 
—a wool shirt, wool socks, light cotton underwear, and a soft hat. 
Avoid stiff-brimmed scout hats and “shorts” on all mountain trips. 

“Carry in your pack only one suit of light underwear, to be 
worn instead of pajamas, one extra wool shirt or light sweater, 
three of four handkerchiefs, and a change of socks. 

“Carry also your toothbrush, toothpaste, comb, a small towel, 
a small piece of soap, a compass, and some waterproofed matches. 
You may want a small kodak, a small flashlight, a hunting knife 
in secure sheath, and chewing gum or lemon drops. The leader of 
the party will see that sufficient axes, life lines, and first aid kits 
are provided.” 

The leader also makes up a grub list and menu, and divides 
food bags and cartons amongst the scouts for fair proportionate 
weight. Certain members of the party are assigned to carry the 
aluminum cooking pots, tin plates, cups and eating tools. No fry¬ 
ing pans or pails are carried. 

The grub list looks strange to those who see it for the first time. 
With Horace Kephart the leaders of these mountain hikes agree 
that variety and ample quantities are prime essentials. But they 
differ with him when he lists a bill of fare that weighs nearly 3 
pounds per scout per day. They cut that in half and still feed the 
husky hikers abundantly without resorting to the condensed colic 
or “patent mummified grub” which Mr. Kephart denounces. 




Thirteen Years of 


142 ] 


They have found as already intimated that the frying pan 
is unnecessary, for neither the festive flapjack nor the pungent 
bacon inspire a scout to ascend three thousand feet lightly before 
lunch time. Flour, cured meats, and corn meal, old stand-bys of 
the pioneers, have all been forsaken; they stick to your ribs—yes, 
they stick, and stick, and stick! 

Breakfast consists of scotch oat cakes with butter, stewed fruit, 
or fruit jello, corn flakes, shredded wheat or grape-nuts with milk, 
and cocoa. The scotch oat cakes, which are baked in camp before 
starting on the hike, are more tasty and nourishing than hardtack 
and less bulky as well. The cereals are all put through a fine food 
chopper to condense their bulk before packing. Dry whole milk 
is used because it tastes better than evaporated milk and is lighter 
to carry. Dehydrated fruits such as apples, peaches, and apricots 
are most favored. 

The noon meal is a “trail lunch,” highly concentrated, consist¬ 
ing of cheese, raisins or prunes, sweet chocolate, and nut meats; 
sometimes with real ice cold chocolate malted milk, sometimes with 
just plain water. The lunches are issued in individual cloth sacks 
every morning, so that at the noon halt packs need not be opened. 

For supper there is mulligan made with meat, potatoes, and 
rice, bread and jam, tea, and cake. Or the main dish may be meat 
loaf and tomato sauce, with rice pudding for dessert. The meat— 
roast beef or corn beef—is the only canned food carried. Meat 
loaves are baked back in camp and dried several days in the oven. 
Dehydrated vegetables of local manufacture are found very satis¬ 
factory. The cake is rich pound cake made with many eggs, or a 
rich nut cake, which satisfies the desire for a sweet dessert and 
provides very concentrated nourishment. 

Cake and meat loaf are carried in cardboard cereal cartons, 
jam is packed in cardboard cylinders, sugar in a waterproof bag, 
and all other food in plain cotton sacks. 

Before starting on a trip the leader calls a meeting of his party 



Scout Adventure 


[ 143 


to divide tlie duties of camp and trail. One or two scouts will be 
assigned as cooks, one or two others to rustle firewood, another to 
get water, others to get boughs or moss for beds, others to pitch 
tents, and one to keep the “log.” 

This latter job is extremely important, especially if the trip 
is a new one, for a sufficiently detailed account of the route must 
be given to enable other parties to follow it, through cloud or in 
sunshine. 

Sometimes an experienced scout who has been over the route 
before will be assigned as guide. Scouts who are particularly fitted 
for this sort of work may qualify as “Olympic Guides” according 
to certain specified requirements. 

Every morning and every afternoon the party “numbers off” 
so that each scout has au assigned place in line. No one except the 
guide may walk ahead of the leader on the trail. The entire party 
must always keep together. 

At every rest we lie down at full length, if the nature of the 
ground permits, with our feet raised, and relax completely. Three 
minutes of such rest is equal to ten minutes standing up or sitting 
on a log. We aim to reach camp at the end of the day fresh and 
fit for the work that must be done before we can sit by the camp¬ 
fire or slide into bed. 

These additional bits of advice are handed out: 

“Walk uphill flat-footed—don’t 'spring’ up on your toes; noth¬ 
ing will wear you out so quickly. Have patience to go downhill 
slowly. 

“Avoid getting chilled while resting—button your shirt just 

as soon as you begin to cool off. 

“Drink sparingly on the trail. Eat snow if you eat it slowly. 

“Avoid asking frequently, 'When do we eat?’—or, 'How much 
further?’ These questions are chechako-signs. (Chechako is Siwash 
for 'tenderfoot.’) 

“Private or government property must be carefully respected. 



144 ] Thirteen Years of Scout Adventure 

L. 

Fire tool-boxes, cabins, lean-tos, etc., are never tampered with or 
damaged. Even in the more remote wilderness where these things 
aren’t found, every camp site is left perfectly clean, with no muti¬ 
lated timber. 

“Be careful never to roll rocks over a cliff or down a slide, 
either intentionally or by careless footwork. Falling rocks are 
deadly. 

“The leader of the party will insist on extreme precautions 
against forest fires, and you’ll observe these precautions cheerfully 
even though they seem to require unnecessary labor.” 

The success of every expedition depends mainly on the spirit 
of co-operation of all members of the party. Each one does will¬ 
ingly anything he may be called upon to do; anything his strength, 
knowledge, or skill enables him to do. The third, fourth and fifth 
scout laws are particularly important. 

From the viewpoint of the Scoutmasters who go on these trips 
with their boys, the educational, inspirational, and recreational 
benefits are tremendous. As incentives to proficiency in scout- 
craft, and as older-boy enterprises of a thoroughly satisfying sort, 
they can’t be beat. 

Of all these trips, on which hundreds of scouts have now 
gone into the most remote Olympic regions, the first will always 
be remembered the most vividly, partly because it was so ambitious, 
and partly because it was so astonishingly unlike any Scouting ever 
previously experienced. The story well deserves its own chapter. 




4 

Warm Hiking Over Snow Fields in August in the Olympics. 



A Party of Well-Shod, Well-Fed Scout Explorers 







Chapter Twelve 


A GLAZED TRAIL IN THE UNMAPPED 

OLYMPICS 

The remotest American wilderness—Directions 
with a double meaning—No place to lie 
down—Cat tracks and devils’ club—Snow 
balls in August—The mountain that wasn’t 
climbed. 














CHAPTER TWELVE 


A “Glazed” Trail In The Unmapped Olympics 


In 1920, at our summer camp on Hood Canal, scouts and their 
leaders became fired with the ambition to climb all the peaks in 
the Olympic range that hadn’t already been climbed. This was a 
large objective, for in the Olympics there were plenty of mountains 
that hadn’t even been named, not to speak of climbing them. 

One in particular attracted us, a majestic double peak called 
“The Brothers,” which stood out prominently on the eastern edge 
of the range as viewed from Hood Canal. No trail led to its base; 
it rose amidst a rugged maze of sharp ridges that had baffled sev¬ 
eral attempts to reach it; between these ridges and the Canal lay 
the dense forest jungle. 

One day at Brinnon, the little post office that served our camp, 
we learned of a rancher who had penetrated into “The Brothers” 
country and would probably tell us about it. At his ranch, stuck 
on the steep hillside that rose from the Canal, we sought and ques¬ 
tioned him. 

“Yep, I’ve glazed* a trail clean into the high country right past 
that mountain, and a feller that was fool enough to want to climb it 
could go right in there easy as anything and skin right up to the 
top”—thus spoke Kindrew, a wiry little man of sixty years. 


*Of course he meant “blazes,” but “glazes” was the word he repeatedly used. 



148 ] 


Thirteen Years of 


We asked him to tell us about it, which he cheerfully did. 
Hasty but rather full notes were made as he slowly spoke his in¬ 
structions, and I quote from them in part: 

“First day—Climb hill behind Kindrew’s ranch, to old log chute; 
at head of chute follow straight over log road to burned bridge. 
Turn to right and look for first faint blazes. Follow blazes through 
timber down to creek, cross creek and follow blazes up steep bank 
on other side; cross a narrow ridge and come down to second 
creek. Camp here. 

“Second day—Cross creek, go up bank, and turn left, following 
blazes on over level ground through tangled timber about IV 2 hours 
to another creek. Follow along valley, crossing two blow-downs, 
finally coming to thicket level with creek bed, and cross creek. Go 
up steep bank and turn left, coming again close to creek, following 
it through dense thickets to falls near its head. Bear right, up steep 
bank into draw above falls and follow blazes up through open tim¬ 
ber to ridge; cross it and go down other side, bearing left, to another 
creek. Camp. 

“Third day—Cross creek, go up bank and bear right, skirting 
steep mountain side and soon bearing left, within sound of another 
creek. Cross creek (probably finding snow there till Aug. 1) and 
bear left, coming up into another draw and following through it to 
ridge; bear left through open timber, coming finally to outcrop¬ 
ping of rock, from which good view may be had. Blazes lead to 
right at this point. Avoid following other blazes leading off to left. 

Go straight down from line of new blazes around left of this rock 
summit to lake about 100 yards below. Camp here. 

“Fourth day—Follow blazes from lake back up to top of ridge 
and turning left follow the ridge toward The Brothers. Use your 
own judgment. 

Return trip from meadow or ridge to highway can be made in 
two days.” 

Now if the writer of those notes had ever climbed any moun¬ 
tains he would have realized that they described a lot of exceed¬ 
ingly difficult wilderness travel, but in his verdant ignorance he 



Scout Adventure 


[ 149 


never thought of that, and only asked, “Is there much hard work in 
following this line of ‘glazes'?” 

“Shucks, no; a feller wouldn’t have no trouble; it’s some years 
since I made ’em, and some’ll be dim, but you can foiler right 
along.” 

“Is there much good scenery?” was our next question. 

“Well, no more’n usual. ’Course on clear days you can look 
quite a piece from them ridges, but I wouldn’t say there’s anything 
special.” 

“Well, do you figure we can climb the mountain all right after 
we get to this lake you mention?” 

“Oh, sure thing—jest go right up the snow to the top!” 

“How near the top have you been?” 

“Why should I go near the top?—there’s nothing up there ex¬ 
cept snow and rocks!—but I got near enough to see how easy it 
would be!” 

“Are we likely to see any big game?” 

“Not if it sees you first—but they’s plenty of bear in there, and 
marmots, and lots of cats.” 

“Cats?” 

“Sure—cougars is their right name, I guess. My wife shot one 
right here on the ranch last winter that was nigh ten feet from tip 
to tip!” 

While ten-foot cats might be all right in a zoo, the prospect of 
finding them loose in the woods was to us not only novel but alarm¬ 
ing. Our faces must have expressed our misgivings for Kindrew 
hastened to say that they were really quite afraid of humans unless 
cornered. We resolved to avoid corners. 

We returned to camp in great excitement. We were keen for 
this expedition; this was going to be the real stuff! For years we 
had read of such country and such trips; now we were on the 
threshold of high adventure indeed! 





Thirteen Years of 


150 ] 


Just how high it was going to be we didn’t realize. We over¬ 
looked entirely the circumstance of Kindrew’s forty years of expe¬ 
rience in the hills and our own absolute lack of experience; we 
thought only how lucky we were to have run onto the information 
that would enable us to accomplish a brilliant mountaineering feat 
and a thrilling adventure. 

The next week was spent in most careful preparation. All the 
wisdom of Kephart and Nessmuk was drawn upon in our planning 
for packs, shoes, grub, and equipment. This was well, and for our 
study we later had reason to be thankful, but Kephart and Nessmuk 
had never seen country quite like the Olympic peninsula—there 
isn’t any like it, except the Olympic peninsula. 

We made up provisions for a party of eight for eight days. We 
followed some of Kephart’s suggestions and added a few of our own. 
Our menu was varied and adequate and our grub pile was surpris¬ 
ingly small. 

We had dehydrated fruits and vegetables and other items of 
what Forest Supervisor Fromme blasphemously called “condensed 
colics”; we had hardtack in three languages—German, Scotch, and 
Swedish, and we had cheese, chocolate and raisins for our lunches. 
We carried tinned roast beef and salmon, plenty of rice and oatmeal, 
and such luxuries as spices, malted milk tablets, and a can of jam. 
We decided not to depend much on barbecued bear or cougar, but 
we hoped to bring down a whistling marmot on the wing—(for 
some unexplainable reason we had assumed that marmots were 
birds, and our first sight of one was a terrible shock.) 

Pup tents and ground sheets, with a change of shirts and under¬ 
wear, were all the shelter we carried; toilet articles, cameras, and 
a .32 revolver completed our outfit. 

Y hen rammed into our Rover packs, all this weighed less than 
25 pounds apiece, and we considered that we had really achieved 
near to perfection in going light. 



Scout Adventure 


t 151 


On a bright afternoon we again approached the Kindrew ranch. 
The old man pointed the way up the hill and wished us good luck. 
He was optimistic! Over the burned and logged-off hillside we 
toiled in the hot sun, found the old skid road at the top of the 
chute, and turned off to the right after crossing the “burned bridge.” 
There we camped at the edge of the virgin timber, deciding to spend 
the remaining hours of daylight in locating the first “glazes” and 
investigating the first part of our route. 

We searched in vain for a level spot for our pup tents, and 
finally accepted the necessity of sleeping in an undulating position. 
For the next four days we never found a clear spot big enough for 
a pup tent, nor even an area of visible ground large enough to sit 
down on. Such is the Olympic jungle. 

Over mossy decayed logs, through dense under-carpetry of vine 
maple, sallal, and huckleberries, we floundered in search of the 
“glazes.” Darkness fell before a single mark was discovered. Well 
—we’d find them in the morning. 

But we didn’t. Late the next afternoon, when we had examined 
every tree trunk in several acres where the directions said the blazes 
were, we were about to forget about blazes and strike off for “The 
Brothers” by compass, which would have been entirely futile, when 
Abbie suddenly shouted, “I’ve got ’em, I’ve got ’em!” 

Sure enough, he had found three faint blazes, in a line, on trees 
about twenty yards apart. Unquestionably we were off to success. 

Yes, we were off—quite badly off. This was undoubtedly the 
“glazed trail,” but when Kindrew had mentioned that the “glazes” 
might be rather faint he hadn’t told the half of it. In the gloom 
of the dense forest they were barely visible, and often we were com¬ 
pelled to stop by a blazed tree while sharp-eyed scouts went ahead 
in the supposed correct direction to search minutely for the next 
mark. 




Thirteen Years of 


152 ] 


Eventually we came to what we surmised was Fulton creek and 
followed it through the “dense thickets” which were full of Devils’ 
Club, a tall substantial bush that resembles a greatly magnified 
Canada thistle and scratches hands, neck, and ears with imparti¬ 
ality. Mixed in with the Devils’ clubs were salmon berry bushes, 
loaded with great orange-colored fruit, very watery but pleasant 
to eat. 

Beyond the creek we came to the “steep bank.” This was a 
localism for “high mountainside,” as we learned by perspiring ex¬ 
perience when we consumed three hours in covering what the direc¬ 
tions disposed of in three words. 

At the creek where we camped the second night we recalled 
that our long-distance guide had said something about it being a 
favorite place for game to drink. A few minutes later Gus found 
a cat track as big as a tin plate in the soft earth beside the creek. 
From the higher ground on both sides we could make out animal 
trails coming down toward our camp site. This was the real thing, 
all right, but the thrill it gave us was of a disturbingly different 
sort than the thrill we had gotten in just looking forward to it. 
What if all these bears and cougars and lions and other tempera¬ 
mental beasts who evidently haunted this territory should object 
to our spending the night there! 

On the previous night each member of the party had slept 
where he chose over an area of half an acre; now the entire expe¬ 
dition concentrated its sleeping facilities within a yard of my tent. 

The night passed without event, and in the morning we tripped 
lightly up another little “bank” nearly one thousand feet high and 
finally came, past the decreasing beginnings of another creek, to a 
high ridge covered with open, park-like timber which for the first 
time afforded a chance to see more than fifty yards ahead. A faint 
haze prevented our looking off the ridge to any great distance, and 






“—At the edge of the virgin forest, into which we traveled for four 
days without finding a place to lie down at full length.” 

(The scout is standing on the whitened trunk of a fallen cedar ) 






Scout Adventure 


[ 153 


so we stuck to our “glazes,” with many delays and uncertainties, 
until we came to what appeared to be an uncommonly large boulder 
rising up from a little hillock beyond the tops of the trees about its 
base. These trees were small and grew thickly, so we couldn’t see 
much of the top of this rock, but judged it was the one referred 
to in our directions—if so, we were well toward the end of the line 
of “glazes.” 

Abbie, the longest-legged and fastest climbing member of the 
expedition, scrambled up the rock and disappeared from view above 
us. A moment later he shouted wildly, “Come up! Come up! 
Come up quick!” 

“What can you see up there?” we shouted back. 

“I can see everything; hurry up!” 

We went up. As I saw Abbie above us, he appeared to be sit¬ 
ting on the top of the boulder looking off beyond my view. I 
reached a foothold that enabled me to reach up and grasp a jiiche 
in the extreme top, and pulled myself up, getting all set to scramble 
onto the summit and stand there to gaze at a magnificent view. 

I got a violent shock, for as I swung a leg over the top, it 
dropped down immediately on the other side, and I found myself 
straddling a knife ridge less than a foot wide, and looking straight 
down into a completely vacant space in which there floated, appar¬ 
ently several miles below, a bunch of dark clouds that concealed 
the earth which I supposed lay ultimately beneath. 

I think that moment of the trip held a thrill just a little bigger 
than any other. We all sat in a row on the ridge, looking about 
us. Just below on one side, the ridge we had been following sloped 
off toward the south and east; to the west the outcropping ridge- 
top of rock led straight toward the enormous mass of “The Broth¬ 
ers,” rising up apparently just a mile or two ahead; to the north 
was the terrifying abyss, a canyon that was in reality more than 
two thousand feet deep. 




Thirteen Years of 


154 ] 


The tension of our awe and astonishment was relieved by Gus, 
who remarked peevishly, “I wish that darn thunderstorm would 
move out of the basement so we could see what’s down there!” 

This was our first look, of a close-up sort, at the “high coun- 
trv” which in the four vears since has become so familiar and de- 
lightful. We were so absorbed in the view that on the first summit 
we forgot to take any photographs, an omission that we remedied 
as fully as possible the next day. 

It was alreadv late afternoon, so we descended to the more 
level tree-covered portion of the ridge below and searched for the 
“glazes” that would lead us to the “lake.” We didn’t find them, 
but Abbie, in prospecting about, caught the reflection of a tree in 
the gathering dusk below us, and we hurried to the spot. A lake it 
might earlier have been, by great stretching of the term, but now 
it was a tiny mosquito pond, and its muddy edge was extensively 
imprinted with the unmistakable evidence of bear and “cats.” 

Twenty yards from it, on the only available open spot, we made 
camp, building three smudges around our cooking fire to combat 
the mosquitoes, which were intolerable for the first half-hour and 
then suddenly left in a body for the night, leaving us very much 
surprised but properly grateful. 

On this night again the rest waited till I pitched my tent and 
then decided that the only satisfactory sleeping ground was right 
around it. Two hardy explorers lay down on its right side, two 
on its left, and the other two directly across the entrance. I had 
a .32 revolver! 

Woodsmen and mountaineers who may read this with amuse¬ 
ment should be assured that since that first adventure none of our 
parties going into the wilderness have been armed. We have learned 
to discover bear tracks and cougar tracks near our beds in the 
morning without the least anxiety—but this trip was our intro¬ 
duction ! 



Scout Adventure 


[ 155 


There came a time after supper when we found that we needed 
more water, to be boiled for later drinking—for we didn’t like the 
look of the pond’s contents for straight consumption—and I voiced 
a general request to the assembled gang for someone to fill our 
folding canvas bucket. 

Silence lasting several seconds. 

“Well, I’ll go if somebody will come along and hold a flash¬ 
light—I don’t want to stumble over that log by the edge of the 
pond,” volunteered Bill finally. 

“I’ll go with you, but somebody else better come with another 
flashlight; mine might go out”—this from Gus. 

Finally a compact expedition of four brave youths was organ¬ 
ized to escort the bucket over the twenty yards of distance separat¬ 
ing the camp-fire from our natural cistern, and it shortly returned 
successfully. 

During the night a large animal crashed through the bushes 
near the pond. In the morning I asked if anybody else had heard 
it. It seemed that everyone had. In fact it appeared that the 
woods had been full of noisy beasts most of the night. “Let’s not 
ever camp here again,” was a suggestion that received hearty ap¬ 
proval. 

It was decided that we should go on toward our objective trav¬ 
eling light—taking with us only a minimum of blankets and one 
day’s rations, leaving the rest of our duffle cached in the top of a 
young sapling. We tied all the stuff to be thus protected from the 
animals into a poncho and managed to lasso an upper limb of a 
suitably elastic young tree and pull it over toward the ground. 
While all the rest of the party held it down, Abbie made the bundle 
fast, but through misunderstanding of instructions we let go too 
soon, and Abbie was jerked violently from our midst. 

This surprised Abbie as much as the rest of us, and when his 



Thirteen Years of 


156 ] 


hand-hold slipped and he dropped to the ground the combined 
shock of rising and falling left him entirely out of breath for sev¬ 
eral seconds. 

Feeling that our cache was secure, we started along the knife 
edged ridge toward our mountain which rose majestically straight 
to the west, seemingly scarcely a mile distant. All morning we 
crawled, walked, and jumped, getting a thrill a minute as the un¬ 
evenness of our way brought continuous difficulties. Below us on 
one side the precipice dropped clear to the creek bottom far below; 
on the other side, a gradual slope led down just a few yards to per¬ 
pendicular cliffs which though not quite so high, fell away from 
fifty to two hundred feet to the tree tops visible below. We felt 
very much cut off from the world and very uncomfortable. 

By noon, we were very thirsty; on every previous day there 
had been plenty of water and we had no canteens. We knew that 
to get water we must go down, perhaps a long way, and our object¬ 
ive was up, but we decided to descend the first draw we came to * 
that might lead to the tiny headwaters of a stream. 

Such a draw or V shaped opening in the rock cliff below us 
soon appeared, and we went cautiously down its steep slope, clutch¬ 
ing small heather and fir brush to hold ourselves back. Not the 
faintest murmur of water reached our ears. To go down very far 
would be next to impossible, so steep was the angle of the mountain¬ 
side, and if we got down, we certainly could not get up except by 
the most extreme exertion. But we were very thirsty. A bit of 
damp moss clinging to a rock attracted our attention, and I dis¬ 
lodged it with a stick, to find beneath it a tiny trickle of water which 
wet the surface of the rock only a few inches and then disappeared. 
But it would fill a cup in three minutes and we stopped right there, 
clawing at rock niches and roots for anchorage while we ate our 
trail lunch and quenched our thirst. 

From then on the party called me Moses, because I had struck 
the rock and gotten water. That water saved us a lot of time and 



Scout Adventure 


[ 157 


trouble. We climbed back up to the ridge and soon came within 
sound of the roar of great waterfalls which later we were to see. 

The climax of the whole trip came when we arrived at sundown 
at a place where the rock ridge fell away sharply in a series of 
great ragged pinnacles into a valley, across which, less than a mile 
away, rose the great double peaked mountain, “The Brothers.” 
Down a perpendicular cliff below the snow mantled upper slopes, 
fell two cataracts of ice cold snow water tumbling more than two 
thousand feet into a green box canyon. 

The fault in the ridge directly ahead of us effectually blocked 
our progress. To go on without an aeroplane was impossible. To 
descend into the box canyon far below us and attempt the impassa¬ 
ble cliffs on the mountains we had hoped to climb would have been 
equally out of the question. We found a comparatively level spot 
just below our ridge and camped for the night, going back before 
dark to our tiny spring in the rock to get a supply of water. 

In the morning we decided to return without a further attempt 
to scale “The Brothers,” as our grub supply was limited and we did 
not know what difficulties we might meet if we delayed for further 
exploration. 

We made the pond by noon, rescued our cache of supplies, and 
traveled on down as rapidly as possible. We had improved the 
blazes with our own axes on the way up, and we moved considerably 
faster, and reached the canal in two days. 

We felt that we had been somewhere! We had traveled through 
forests where no trail existed, we had followed Kindrew’s uncer¬ 
tain line of faint blazes, we had traversed a great deal of nearly 
perpendicular scenery, we had seen wonderful sights, and we had 
come back safe and well. 

Many times thereafter we enjoyed hikes more successful. We 
learned to climb over immense snow fields in August and try 
vainly to keep cool; we learned the unequalled joy of standing on 
the absolute summit of a hitherto unclimbed mountain; we learned 



158 ] 


Thirteen Years of 


to become almost friendly with the over-sized woodchucks that are 
called whistling marmots, and to photograph them at close range; 
but none of these things gave us the thrill of that first venture into 
the virgin jungle above Kindrew’s ranch. 

Later in that first season there came a different sort of adven¬ 
ture, in a different region of the west, which deserves brief mention. 


Rugged, romantic, and almost uninhabited, the Santa Cruz 
islands, thirty miles off the southern California coast, seemed to 
offer prospects of interest and adventure for a unique camping trip 
from Santa Barbara in August, 1921. 

My friend, Harold D. Ware, who had left Seattle to be Scout 
Executive at Santa Barbara, chartered the fishing boat “Victory” 
and innocently embarked with seventeen scouts on the five-hour 
voyage to Valdez harbor on the east shore of Santa Cruz island, 
the largest of the group. 

The Pacific ocean was in a bad mood that morning. The first 
hour was one of anxiety; the remaining four were periods of in¬ 
tense suffering and extreme distress. It is bad enough to be sea¬ 
sick on a high-class passenger liner; to be sea-sick on a fish tug is 
a great deal worse. There was no refuge from the wind and spray 
below decks because of an absolutely deadly smell that spoke mem¬ 
ories of many horrible cargoes. The leader of the enterprise lay 
behind a box on deck where he couldn’t see the top of the mast 
describing dizzy arcs against the clouds; most of the boys lay about 
him too miserable to talk and too weak to move. The hardy spirits 
of the party, to make matters worse, amused themselves by taking 
snapshots of the sufferers. 





Scout Adventure 


[ 159 


Finally the “Victory” rolled into the so-called harbor of Valdez, 
which was merely a niche in the rock wall that forms the eastern 
shore of Santa Cruz island. There was no town, the only habitation 
on the island being a small colony of sheep raisers at the extreme 
southern end. 

Camp was set up by a tiny stream near the harbor, and the 
party organized for exploration. 

Years ago the Spaniards cruising up and down the California 
coast tried to settle on this island, but finally gave up the effort as 
it became evident that because of the extreme drouth no vegetation 
would grow, except sagebrush. In a wide valley running through 
the center of the island the ruins of several Spanish ranches now 
remained. Not a tree or blade of grass was to be seen except at 
the scouts’ camp site, where a few scrub oaks struggled for a career 
of very slightly shady usefulness. 

The Spanish ranchers had brought pigs to the island, and some 
of these pigs evidently missed the boat when the last of their own¬ 
ers moved out, for there are now on the island considerable numbers 
of wild hogs, savage great grand-piglets of the lazy porkers of a 
century ago. They are really dangerous when attacked in close 
quarters. Several of them, however, were shot for our bill of fare, 
but the meat proved obstinate to deal with. The animals lead a 
very active life scrambling over the rocks and hills, and all the culi¬ 
nary arts of scout cooks failed to soften the blow when our teeth 
hit those wild pork chops. 

In the six days of our stay on the island we climbed Mt. Diablo, 
elevation 2400 feet, and explored a large portion of our surround¬ 
ings, always carrying full canteens and stopping two hours at noon 
during the worst heat of the sun. 



160 ] 


Thirteen Years of Scout Adventure 


The fourth day a fishing craft in Valdez harbor was hailed 
and its master was induced to take the party down the shore to the 
“Painted Cave.” 

The tide was low, and we sailed under a rock archway that 
just admitted our mast, into a great domed chamber whose walls 
and ceiling were marvelously colored rock of all hues, and whose 
floor was the restless Pacific, clear as crystal, with great fish 
swimming in its depths. 

Here we dropped anchor and embarked in two small skiffs, 
passing across this vaulted marine palace to a small opening at its 
far side, and through this into a smaller portion of the cave, pitch 
dark, where our flashlights lit up walls of even more brilliant hue. 
Every color of the rainbow was held in those glistening rocks. We 
explored this passage its entire length, some five hundred feet, and 
then hurried out. We couldn’t keep our minds off the obvious fact 
that the door into that place was entirely submerged except at low 
tide. It was satisfying to sail out again into the open sunlight. 

The Pacific was kind to us on our return to the mainland, but 
that was just luck. There are only three of the party who would 
look forward without nervousness to another trip to Santa Cruz 
until they get a bridge built. 




Chapter Thirteen 


IN THE HEART OF THE CASCADE 

RANGE 

A railroad that runs on request—A summer 
camp no auto will ever reach—The right 
ridge but the wrong mountain—Log cabin 
evenings—The lake that got lost—Snowshoe 
adventures in Mt. Rainier National Park. 








> 



















“On one of these queer trains our packs were loaded into an ancient 

touring car—” 










CHAPTER THIRTEEN 


In The Heart Of The Cascade Range 


Forty-six miles through the rugged heart of the northern Cas¬ 
cade mountains of Washington, from Hartford to Monte Cristo, 
runs a most astonishing railroad. Four miles up the trail from 
the line of this railroad, the Everett Council has its camp site on 
Lake Kelcema. 

To explore some of the steep places in this wild region and 
particularly to experience a trip over this railroad, a party of 
eleven scouts and two leaders started out from Seattle on October 
25th, 1923, when a school teachers’ convention provided two con¬ 
venient extra holidays. 

We drove by auto forty miles from Seattle to Hartford, the 

western terminus of the Hartford Eastern Railroad. We had pre¬ 
viously arranged for passage—one of the unique things about this 
road is that during most of the year it runs trains only “on request.” 

The road was built by the Rockefeller interests in 1891 to 1893, 
when there was prospect of great mining developments in gold and 
silver in the northern Cascade mountains. Near its right of way 
many claims were staked and thousands of dollars of stock com¬ 
pany funds were spent, but though encouraging samples were 
found, no pay ore was ever taken out, and the boom towns that 
sprang up thirty years ago are clusters of deserted shacks today. 
Ambitious names they have, these lonely stations—Gold Basin, 



Thirteen Years of 


164 ] 


Silverton, Bonanza Queen, and the like—but their only inhabitants 
are a few surviving prospectors too old to change their minds or 
too poor to come out. 

The railroad is now operated by an Everett concern to serve 
the handful of residents of these towns and the few hunters and 
hikers who go into this wildest portion of the Cascades. Locomo¬ 
tives and cars being too expensive, the rolling stock consists of 
several gasoline trucks, fitted with railroad wheels and surmounted 
by bus bodies, handled much in the manner of one-man street cars. 

The scenery along the Hartford Eastern is majestic in the ex¬ 
treme. For most of its length the track follows the course of the 
Stilaguamish river through rock-walled canyons and forest-clothed 
gorges, clinging dizzily to the edges of towering cliffs, often forced 
into tunnels where the roaring stream claims the entire space in 
its cavernous valley. 

The maintenance-of-way costs are enormous. The Stilaguamish 
river resents the intrusion of this man-made thing into its fast¬ 
nesses, and each year causes cave-ins, washouts, and landslides that 
call for extensive repairs. Two years ago, in a period of unusually 
high water, the roadbed was destroyed in a dozen places and ser¬ 
vice was interrupted for months. 

On one of the queer “trains” of this transportation system, 
our party started out from Hartford at 10 A. M., our packs being 
carried on an ancient touring car that served as trailer. Fifteen 
miles up the river, an uncompleted bridge obstructed our way. 
We transferred our duffle onto a hand-car and pushed it out across 
the wooden trestle where a great caterpillar crane was working. 
How we could go further was hard to see, for the crane completely 
blocked the trestle. The engineer told us to get onto a platform 
suspended from the crane. We crowded on and in a breath-taking 
moment were suddenly picked up and swung around far out over 
the swift river to the track at the further side of the trestle. 

Here occurred an incident which impressed on our boys the 



Scout Adventure 


[ 165 


value of calks and hobnails. The engineer, wearing ordinary shoes 
with smooth soles, picked up from the crane platform a box of ap¬ 
ples consigned to a station up the road. Turning to carry it up 
the track, he slipped and fell headlong over the edge of the bridge. 
He would have been killed on the rocks far below, but he struck 
the head of a new pile several feet beneath the edge of the trestle 
and clung to it desperately until strong arms pulled him back to 
safety. 

“Too bad about those apples,” he said when he got his breath 
again. 

We loaded the freight and our own outfits onto another car 
and proceeded, finally reaching the Bonanza Queen trail. Here 
we got off, ate our lunch, and slung our packs for the climb to 
Lake Kelcema. 

The four-mile trail up Deer Creek to the lake is fairly steep, 
for it crosses twelve hundred-foot contour lines on the way. A 
mile from the railroad are the remains of the Bonanza Queen mine, 
a few decaying shanties and a high half mile cableway across the 
valley to the tunnel entrance in an almost perpendicular mountain¬ 
side. Three miles up the trail is the “St. Louis” mine. Here, the 
boys took flashlights and explored the low-roofed tunnel, but found 
so much water in it a short distance from the entrance that they 
were forced to turn back. 

At three o’clock we reached Lake Kelcema, a beautiful diamond 
shaped gem of clear emerald water about a quarter of a mile across. 
On one side Deer Creek flows out through a grove of Alaska cedar; 
on the other three sides steep mountain walls rise a thousand feet, 
almost from the water’s edge. 

In the grove of white trunked cedars near the shore, stands 
the log cabin which is the headquarters of Camp Kelcema and which 
was to serve as our shelter. 

Though the lake was icy, a swim was the first order of busi¬ 
ness. Then a fire was quickly built in the sheet iron stove which 




166 ] 


Thirteen Years of 


an overworked pack horse had brought up from the railroad, and 
supper mulligan, of dehydrated vegetables, meat, and macaroni 
was put in the pot. 

After supper we turned in immediately, for the next day there 
would be stiff climbing. Some slept on bunks in the cabin, chanc¬ 
ing the athletic rats; others pitched their own lightweight shelters 
outside and laid their sleeping bags on the frosty ground. It wasn’t 
frozen sufficiently to be hard, and its springiness was derived from 
the fact that the humus, or leaf mold and bark mold, was six or 
eight inches thick above the solid mineral soil. 

The clear cold night brought a fine rest to those who had 
rightly calculated their shelter. In the morning, our breakfast 
was of oatmeal, prunes, whole wheat bread, and cocoa; a quick 
clean-up of dishes and the cabin followed; then the gang was off 
to scale Mt. Helena, which was supposed to be several miles to the 
northward. 

Mace Schooley, fat boy of the outfit, was additionally handi¬ 
capped by having no calks or hob-nails in his shoes, but the slip¬ 
ping that detained him on the first part of the trip, where a sort of 
trail was available, was nothing to what happened when he got 
up in the snow and among the rocks. 

Four hours of struggling with contours brought the gang above 
timber line where we could look around, and it was a shock to dis¬ 
cover that Mt. Helena rose majestically a couple of miles north¬ 
west of the mountain we were on. Ignorant of our own mountain’s 
identity, we nevertheless went on up, coming to some fairly steep 
rock work and finally reaching a narrow ledge just below the top. 
The remaining few feet were absolutely straight up, so the summit 
wasn’t reached. A magnificent view of the entire Cascade range, 
from Mt. Rainier on the south to Mt. Baker on the north, with 
silver-tipped Olympics rising jaggedly against the western horizon, 
was spread before us. More than a hundred miles in every direc- 



Scout Adventure 


[ 167 


tion our vision extended in the clear atmosphere,—an ample reward 
for the morning’s labor. 

The return trip was just a matter of crashing through under¬ 
brush all the way back to Lake Kelcema where we learned that we 
had been on the “Devil’s Thumb,” a peak that probably has never 
been scaled all the way to.the top. 

That evening, after a powerful dinner, we sat around the sheet- 
iron stove in the cabin. In other places, or in other company, songs 
and a story would have been in order; in this case just talk was 
the thing. The talk ran on subjects that still sounded strange to 
ex-easterners present—the merits of pack boards, the advantages 
of square hobs over screw calks, the possible uses of an ice axe, and 
the proper weight of wool-bat sleeping bags for winter travel. 

Ranger Jack Tusler was reminded of incidents of the mining 
days, when prospectors expected speedy wealth from the new mines 
along the wild-cat railroad. He also discussed present real estate 
values in the one-time mining metropolis of Silverton. Two gro¬ 
cery stores were running there up to a few weeks ago, he said, when 
one of the merchants bought the store, land, stock, and good-will 
of the other for $150.00, with seven cords of stove wood thrown in 
because of a cash payment on the deal. 

An ambitious brand-new first class scout in the party inter¬ 
rupted Tusler’s flow of information by asking for a merit badge 
examination in Camping. 

“Sure,” said Jack. “Just sit down there at the table and write 
up a complete list of the outfit, grub and all, that you’d take for 
a week in the mountains at this season of the year.” 

A general silence marked this request, and the ranger caused 
another pause by saying, “I’d like to get out in a tight place with 
some of these Eagle scouts and see what they are good for!” 

The four Eagle scouts in the bunch looked at each other more 
or less uneasily, though at least three of them had already been in 
tight places and come through in splendid fashion. 




168 ] 


Thirteen Years of 


Finally, the fire and the candle burned out, and we turned in 
for another night, after deciding that the unnamed mountain across 
the lake would be our objective for Saturday’s climb. 

The morning was fine, and with assurance of perfect visibility 
again, we started up with Tusler as guide, pulling ourselves hand 
over hand up the steep base of the mountain through vine maple 
and young alder thickets. 

In an hour, after many pauses to let our fat explorer get his 
breath, we came out of the timber just below the rocky ridge which 
led to the summit of the mountain. Like many other ridges in the 
Cascades and the Olympics that look ordinary enough when ap¬ 
proached from the gradually sloping side, this ridge had a real 
kick in it, for when we reached it, we found it less than a foot wide, 
with a straight drop of five hundred to a thouand feet into a for¬ 
ested valley on the other side. This ridge was simply a series of 
upturned slabs of rocks, one side having been cut off sheer in an¬ 
cient glacial days, while the other side, by which we had approached, 
was a gradual rock slide covered with soil nearly to the top. 

Here and there in the rocky crest small gnarled trees struggled 
for life, and these helped us upward as we climbed on just below 
the ridge toward the summit. Soon we hit a place where both sides 
of the ridge fell away steeply, and we had to crawl up a narrow 
sloping ledge that followed faults in the rock slabs just below the 
top for several hundred feet. Here three members of the party 
halted, including “Fat,” who was afraid the ledge wasn’t wide 
enough to extend beyond his center of gravity. 

A scout is never urged in mountain climbing to go where he 
feels nervous or dizzy, for even though no real danger may exist 
for those whose nerves remain steady, it is recognized that high 
situations affect various persons differently and it is no disgrace 
to be unwilling to go on when a jumpy feeling might lead to a 
stumble and perhaps a fall. 




*—Pitched their light-weight shelters and laid their sleeping bags on 

the frosty ground.” 








Scout Adventure 


[ 169 


Tusler led the rest of the party safely to the pinnacle, where 
names were written on a list that was left in a small rock cairn. 
The view was equal to that of the previous day; the lake and the 
camp clearing far below looked tiny and remote, as if we could not 
possibly have left them only two hours before. 

The first part of the way down was worse than coming up—it 
always is—but we got back into the timber without accident, and 
then slid down, first over the snow patches and then over the 
tangled ground, clutching alder and vine maple branches to stop 
ourselves at the edge of occasional cliffs, and rolling sometimes 
fifty feet when the steeply sloping ground afforded no foothold. 
Part of the gang went ahead; four of us remained to keep company 
with the extra-slipping Mace Schooley, who would have been a com¬ 
plete wreck except for his generous padding, and we lost ourselves, 
taking a course that led us beyond the edge of the lake into the 
maze of undergrowth in the valley just below it. This meant an 
extra half hour of struggling before we floundered out into the 
clearing, and time was short for us to hit the trail to the railroad 
where we had an appointment with our “special train” at 2:30. 

We ate our lunch of hard tack, jam, cheese, and raisins quickly, 
gave the cabin its final clean-up, and traveled fast. We kept our 
appointment; most of the bunch made it in less than an hour all the 
way, and we clicked over the snaky rails toward civilization, drop¬ 
ping Jack Tusler at his station enroute. 

W 7 e met the enterprising merchant prince of Silverton whom 
Tusler had told us about; he was at the station to see the semi¬ 
weekly limited pull in. W T e shall never forget him, for he sup¬ 
ported the most luxuriant and remarkable foliage that ever con¬ 
cealed a man’s chin. A moustache of tremendous density over¬ 
hung his mouth so far that we marveled how he could feed himself, 
and wished we might see him eat. He was smoking a long stemmed 



170 ] 


Thirteen Years of 


pipe; Ave realized that he couldn’t smoke a short one without run¬ 
ning a grave risk of a forest fire. 

Probably he was entitled to all the distinction his whiskers gave 
him, for he was not only Silverton’s leading business man, but 
postmaster, “mayor,” and constable as well—a striking figure elo¬ 
quent of the departed days when these offices had carried real 
responsibilities. 

The magnificent landscape along the right-of-way unreeled in 
reverse order as we rolled on down to Hartford, and it inspired 
us to talk of our next major adventure, which was to be a winter 
trip to Mt. Rainier National Park. All the way home we talked 
of it and made plans. It was to be no experiment, just a repetition 
of an annual event, but an event that is unique in the list of unusual 
mountaineering enterprises. 

Every year, in mid-winter or in the early spring, Tacoma and 
Seattle scouts join in a snow shoe and skii trip into the white 
spaces around the base of that grandest of all American mountains 
that rises to an altitude of 14,408 feet above the green shores of 
Puget Sound, the monarch of the Cascade range, Mt. Rainier. 

In Paradise Valley, at an altitude of 5500 feet, the Rainier 
National Park company has built a large hotel called Paradise Inn, 
which is thronged for two short months in summer with tourists 
from all over the world. The snow comes early and remains late 
at that altitude, and winter finds the three-story Inn completely 
buried under a thirty foot blanket of snow. Supplies are stored 
at the Inn in the fall for the Mountaineers, the Scouts, and the few 
other hardy outdoor folk who make the difficult trip up from the 
Park entrance via snowshoe to visit it during its most wonderful- 
season. Entrance is gained through an attic window or an excava¬ 
tion to one of the doors, huge fires are kindled in the great fire¬ 
places, candles and lanterns illuminate the dark, snowbound inte¬ 
rior, and the Inn becomes a headquarters for exciting winter sport 
in a superb setting. 



Scout Adventure 


[ 171 


Of what has befallen scouts on these trips and on other treks 
into the winter wilderness where no hotel offered shelter, there 
isn’t room to tell in this present volume. The summer hikes around 
Mt. Rainier, too, with their incidents of close acquaintance with 
bear and mountain goats, have a tale of their own worth telling. 
In the Cascades and the Olympics there have been many other trips 
that would have furnished material for a dozen good yarns. 

There was the feat of the two scoutmasters who were the second 
party ever to reach the rocky summit of Mt. Constance, highest 
peak in the eastern Olympic range. They made the difficult ascent 
in a dense fog, bent upon doing a unique good turn. Two other 
mountaineers had succeeded in scaling the pinnacle of this moun¬ 
tain two months before, but their accomplishment was doubted by 
the old timers of the region who had announced after previous 
attempts that the summit of Mt, Constance was absolutely inaccess¬ 
ible. The two mountaineers claimed to have left their names on a 
page from a pocket notebook in a small cairn which they had built 
upon the summit, and there the two scoutmasters found it, verify¬ 
ing the earlier questioned achievement. But for the fog which hid 
the dizzy depths below and the perpendicular heights above, the 
record might have remained undisturbed and unverified; as it was, 
the scoutmasters made the ascent in ignorance of most of their 

perils. 

Then there was the enterprise of two scouts who set out from 
Camp Barsons to find the a eleven lost lakes” of Mt. Jupiter, a 
peak of unknown height in an extremely rugged and entirely trail¬ 
less region between the Duckabush and the Dosewallips rivers. 
They found the lakes, climbed Mt. Jupiter, and brought back an 
intelligible map of their route. Incidentally they learned from the 
record in a tin can on the summit that the solitude of Mt. Jupiter 
apparently had not been interrupted for seventeen years. 



Thirteen Years of 


172 ] 


There was the thrilling trip of three other older scouts who 
penetrated into the northern portion of the Olympic range and 
came to "Copper City,” a completely equipped and entirely aban¬ 
doned mining town at the end of an exceedingly rough pack-horse 
trail far in the heart of the mountains. They explored the half- 
mile tunnel at the mine, followed the Dungeness river to its head¬ 
waters in the snow fields behind Mt. Constance, and traveled over 
Alpine meadows carpeted with acres of gorgeous wild flowers be¬ 
fore topping two six-thousand-foot ridges on their way back to 
Camp Parsons with a tale of adventure that led many parties of 
scouts to follow in their tracks during the course of succeeding 
summers. 

There was the expedition which went in to seek a possible route 
to “The Brothers” mountain by way of the Duckabush river, and 
felled a tall tree on which to cross the roaring stream. On a steep 
mountain side beyond the river they lost their way and on their 
return had to ford the waist deep icy current in the evening to reach 
their camp. 

There were the ambitious Sea Scouts, possessed of a recondi¬ 
tioned tliirty-foot whaleboat that once belonged to the liner Mau¬ 
retania. They started from Camp Parsons at full tide on a stormy 
night and tried to stem the wind and waves in the canal channel 
for a voyage to Seattle. They brought up high and dry on a lee 
shore before daylight, and after waiting for another flood tide to 
float their craft they battled three days and nights with perverse 
tides and adverse winds before they reached their destination. 
Their craft was later named the "Saturday Night” because of its 
striking resemblance to a bath tub; its broadside presented a much 
greater surface to the wind than its two sails. On a subsequent 
voyage this clipper logged nearly four knots over the five-mile 
route from Camp Parsons to Brinnon. 



Scout Adventure 


[ 173 


There was the experience of Otto Lessing, a scout and student 
at the University of Wisconsin, who on a chance visit to the North¬ 
west was induced to join an expedition into the most remote Olym¬ 
pic regions. On the trip unnamed peaks were climbed, unnamed 
streams were discovered, and a large herd of elk was viewed at close 
range. Otto learned mountaineering so fast that he was still gasp¬ 
ing when he returned to Camp Parsons a week later. He had never 
before seen anything higher than the Michigan Avenue skyline in 
Chicago. 


There was the exploit of Scoutmaster Harold Ware, who led 
a party clear across the Olympic mountains from the Canal to the 
Pacific ocean in five and a half days, the usual time for such a trip 
being two weeks. 

a The weather was cloudy and we couldn’t see much, so we just 
kept traveling right along”—thus Ware accounted for it afterward. 
Two years later, on a less strenuous schedule, he led another party 
over the same route, and one of the hikers, a prominent Canadian 
scout officer, insisted on wearing his shorts all the way, through 
devils’ clubs and alder thickets, over rock slides, past hornets’ nests, 
and all the other obstacles of the Olympic jungles and ridges. 


There was the hike to Mt. Elinor in the southern part of the 
range, and the discovery of an unnamed lake at its western base, 
where fourteen perspiring scouts undressed on a snow bank on a 
hot July day and plunged into the crystal clear water for a cooling 
swim. They had slid down a mile-long snow field from a high pass 
to reach the lake, and the effort of holding themselves back to a 
reasonably safe speed at which to dodge protruding boulders had 
brought sweat to their brows, while the friction of snow on khaki 
cloth had nearly burned their breeches. 



Thirteen Years of Scout Adventure 


174 ] 


Possibly these and other fresh adventures that are crowding 
scouts’ careers and testing their abilities in this northwestern coun¬ 
try can be told, if time affords, in another story. For the present 
they can all be characterized in this fragment of mountaineering 
verse: 


“Sling your pack and sling it right , 
Draw your belt and draw it tight; 
Set your pace and set it strong — 
Unmapped trails toe’ll follow long! 
Canyon deep and mountain high — 
Forest aisle and open sky — 

All the wilderness about, 

Calls the huskier, hardier scout!” 








We reached Lake Kelcema—” (Note the pack-boards worn by both these hikers.) 
—Some fairly steep work on a rock slide just below the top.” 

—Crawling along a narrow sloping ledge for several hundred feet.” 











FEB 2 1924 















































